


Falling into mighty traps

by vanityscare



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Cumcakes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Hate Sex, Hate to Love, Infidelity, M/M, Meaning there's cum being put in cupcakes and then served, Past Infidelity, Past Relationship(s), Sad Louis, The person eating them knows it so there's nothing assault-ish about it just to make that clear, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-10 17:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 38,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4400723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanityscare/pseuds/vanityscare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i><b>January 17th 2017:</b> Since I'm still getting questions about this fic: Yes, I am gonna finish it. My laptop died in May 2016 and as the last installation, which was about 85% completed, was saved on it, I have to pay an electronics shop to retrieve all my files since I'm not about to rewrite about 25k words. Sorry about the delay!</i>
</p><p>Louis isn’t a fan of the concept of sleeping with the enemy. He finds it ridiculous and he reckons everyone who does it are pathetically desperate for a shag, too stupidly hung up on someone unattainable to be able to resist the opportunity to have their hopelessness sexed away or severely lacking in morals and self respect. So it’s not that odd, really, that he’d end up fucking Harry Styles on a regular basis, because Louis is too stupidly hung up on someone unattainable to be able to resist the opportunity to have his hopelessness sexed away and he’s definitely pathetically desperate for a shag and there’s no doubt that he’s lacking in morals and self respect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic became approximately 35k longer than it was supposed to be, as fics often do, hence why I decided to post it in three parts instead of just one heh. I've been working on this on and off for about half a year now and it was actually originally a Tomlinshaw-fic until I came to the conclusion that the plot is a big enough cliche in itself and that I therefore didn't need a cliche Tomlinshaw relationship to add to the cliche-factor, hence why I changed it to Larry :) Enjoy!
> 
>  [tumblr](http://lilopranks.tumblr.com)

[](http://s1378.photobucket.com/user/annabfold/media/falling%20into%20mighty%20traps%202_zpsmwibyupp.png.html)

What Louis needs, regardless of what Zayn thinks, isn't for someone to fuck a metaphorical stick out of his arse. 

No, what Louis needs is for Niall to stop throwing impromptu parties at the least possible opportune times and then inform Louis about said parties half an hour before they're set to spring into action. Impromptu parties are fine, Louis loves an impromptu party as much as the next twenty-four year-old bloke, but he'd love them far more if Niall didn't insist on hosting them every month and all but command that Louis comes to every single one of them. 

He's old, he no longer has the stamina and party-animalistic spirit of the energetic twenty-three year-old he used to be. More often than not he'd rather be at home in front of the TV accompanied by Molster and St. Harold than anywhere else.

“But there's gonna be a human Harold at the party,” Niall said when Louis tried to explain his wishes to stay at home on this particular summer night.

And there is, indeed, a human Harold at the party, Louis can conclude as he leans his back against the kitchen counter and looks across the room where Human (and far less pleasant than his cat namesake) Harold is standing, deeply indulged in a conversation with a girl Louis doesn't know.

The girl leaves eventually, but Harry stays and apparently Louis has been looking at him, because their eyes meet and Harry quirks one eyebrow in a silent, ' _What?_ ' Louis just shrugs and turns around under the pretence of refilling his cup. 

At what point in life is one considered too old to drink and enjoy punch that has the same colour and consistency as a puppy's puke? 

But then Harry comes walking up next to him and he too fills his glass with punch and Louis thinks, with a self-satisfied smile, that if Harry's not too old, then Louis isn't either. Because Harry's ancient, like at least a year older than Louis, something Louis has enjoyed reminding him of since the very first time they met, which was, coincidentally enough, at one of Niall's parties, back when they were still in uni. 

Louis' uni-days are over, but his life is mostly the same – he lives in the same flat, works the same job with the insane hours at his local Tesco, runs with some of the same friends. And Harry, because Harry's always there. Every time Niall throws a party, Harry's there and Louis doesn't understand why, because isn't Harry close to thirty? Shouldn't he be at home in a rocking chair and reminisce about his lost youth?

“I'm twenty-five.” And apparently Louis was thinking out loud, because Harry's looking at him with narrow eyes now. “I reckon I've still got a few good years left in me.”

“I reckon all your good years are in the past,” Louis says and offers a smile so sickly sweet that it would give a marathon runner instant diabetes.

Harry takes an obnoxiously large gulp of his drink. Louis wants to stomp on his foot, just for good measure. “You say the sweetest things, munchkin.”

“You have no idea, honey bunny,” Louis says and bats his eyelashes. “Really, though. What are you doing here?”

“Same as you. Giving Niall moral support in his time of need.”

Louis raises his cup in salute and takes a swig of it, grimaces at the taste. “Why does Niall invite you, again? You're no fun.” Drunk Louis may be a lot of things, but no one can accuse him of being a liar.

“At least I talk to people instead of standing in the kitchen by myself and scowling at other guests.”

“No one has ever received a Tomlinson scowl unless they deserved it,” Louis admonishes, waving his finger in Harry's face.

“I know of quite a few people who'd disagree with me on that.”

Louis scowls. “Then they clearly share your level of general understanding of the world.”

“Which, no matter how poor you think it is, is still better than yours.” Harry raises his cup in a silent salute, but doesn't give Louis the chance to reply before he turns on his heel and leaves the kitchen. Louis scowls again. He doesn't like Harry, but he still follows him through the doorway and over to the couch, where he's sat down next to a pleasantly drunk Niall.

“Lou-Moo!” Niall exclaims when he catches sigh of Louis standing there next to the couch, looking down at him and Harry with an expression as if someone left rotting dog food right under his nose.

“Ni-Pie,” Louis greets back. He pushes past Harry to get to Niall, accidentally stomps on his giant feet as he goes and slumps down in Niall's lap.

“Just so you know, this is the last party of yours I attend before the summer's over,” Louis tells him.

Through the drunkenness, Niall looks crushed. “What? But all my friends like you.” A sharp bark of laughter comes from Harry and Niall places an elbow in his side. “ _Almost_ all my friends like you. The ones with good taste.”

“Oh, sod off, _Ni-Pie_ ,” Harry says and gets back up on his feet. He waves Niall goodbye with a delicate motion of his hand and offers Louis a raised eyebrow before he saunters off over to a group of people standing over by Niall's CD collection.

“He shouldn't be allowed to use that nickname for you, it's mine,” Louis says, nuzzling into Niall's neck. He spills a bit of punch down Niall's chest and Niall whacks him in the back of the head.

“I'll tell him tomorrow,” Niall says and seals the promise by tugging lightly at a strand of Louis' hair. It's quiet for a delicate moment. “Your hair's getting long,” Niall then adds, his voice far softer than ten seconds ago.

Louis shrugs. “Twas time for a change.”

“Yeah.” Niall places an arm around Louis' waist and clutches, maybe in some kind of silent reassurance. “How are you holding up?”

Normally, Louis would have dismissed the question with a curt, “Good.” But the thing is, he's drunk and drunk Louis isn't a liar and even though he's doing _okay_ , he's not doing _well_. “Fine, I guess,” he therefore says.

“You miss him,” Niall says and it's not a question. “Have you talked to him since he moved out?”

“'Course I have.” Once. Liam called and they had a chat and Liam didn't seem to at all notice the horrible awkwardness Louis felt as he was told all about Liam's new life and how weird it was not to see each other on a daily basis anymore. Then again, he's neither called nor texted since, so maybe he did notice. “He's enjoying his life with... what's her name?” Louis knows very well what her name is, he just wishes he didn't.

“Erica,” Niall says and Louis nods. “Did you ever even tell him?”

Louis takes a clumsy sip of his cup. He only feels a little bad when more punch travels down Niall's chest, soaking his shirt. “Did I ever tell him what?” he says bitterly once he's swallowed. “That it'd have been hella rad if he'd some day realise that 'hey, Liam, wanna go out to dinner Friday night? Maybe catch a movie after?' didn't mean that I wanted to gather up a group of our thirty closest friends and go to McDonald's and then go back to our flat and watch _Die Hard_?”

Niall's eyes are filled with something that looks a suspicious lot like pity when he says, “Yeah, that.”

Giving a humourless laugh, Louis shakes his head, closes his eyes and breathes in heavily. The familiar, homely scent of Niall catches in his nose. “No, I never told him.”

“Why not?” comes Niall's immediate answer. “You spent almost two years fucking whenever you felt like it and before that, you were friends for four years, so you could-”

“I know this may be hard for you to understand because you're a hopeless romantic whose boyfriend brings him roses twice a month, but there is, in fact, such a thing as a casual fuck between friends.”

Niall lets out a sigh that sounds unbearably sad. “Except the casualness was one-sided with you and Liam.”

“Don't get dramatic, it doesn't suit you.” Niall doesn't respond to that, but he doesn't in any way indicate that he wants Louis to move either, just keeps his arm firm around Louis' waist as the party carries on around them, loud and cheerful and not at all matching Louis' mood. 

He just gets a little sad, is all, whenever someone tries to get him to talk about Liam, because even though it's been almost two months now, the wounds are still fresh enough that they sting when pried too deeply into with a sharp enough needle. When he goes to bed at night and closes his eyes, he can still feel Liam's arms around him and hear his mumbling, ' _It was great, mate. Take care, yeah?_ ' What kind of goodbye-greeting is that, is what Louis keeps asking himself; who says _that_ as they're about to move out of a flat they shared with a close friend slash occasional orgasm-giver for two years?

The party wraps up a little past three thirty in the morning, by which time Louis has gotten sufficiently drunker and Niall has long since disappeared to the bedroom with Zayn. As Louis lays on the couch, cocooned in a pile of blankets and pillows, he can hear them go at it through the wall like a pair of exceptionally raunchy rabbits. Louis frowns miserably and flips over to lie on his front. He misses having raunchy rabbit-sex.

*

Sometimes, Louis wonders if it's as socially acceptable to be a cat-man as it is to be a cat-lady, because as the days get shorter and darker, he's steering heavily in the direction of becoming just that – a cat-man. Not that he minds; he loves Molster and St. Harold more than he loves himself, but somehow he gets the feeling that saying that out loud wouldn't go over too well. So he keeps it to himself and continues to snuggle up with St. Harold on the couch every evening while Molster eyes him judgementally from her spot on the thoroughly sat-down armchair that he got from a flee market two years ago.

As summer fades and the weather grows colder, Louis appreciates his cats more than ever. He's never been good at handling the transition between summer and autumn. Not because of the change in temperature or the increase in rainy days, but because he finds it sad to see the leaves fall off the trees and land on the ground, only to turn brown and slimy and unwanted. 

Sometimes he wonders if that's what will happen to him when he grows old, if he'll just turn into one of many people who grows and fades and then, eventually, disappears completely without a trace. His only comfort is that at least he has a couple of friends who'll probably miss him when he dies. Unless they die before him, in which case Louis will sue.

One day early in October, after three weeks of constant rain, the final proof that autumn has arrived comes crashing down on Louis' doorstep in form of a new coat he ordered from Asos. It's a very nice coat, he thinks as he inspects his reflection in the full-length mirror in his bedroom; it shows off his waist, but not so obscenely he looks like Christina Hendricks without boobs. Last year's blue coat had that effect and Zayn laughed so hard soda came pouring out of his nose. This one, however, is dark grey and it has no visible buttons and it swings in at the waist, but without squeezing his tummy. Louis looks _beautiful_.

The sound of the doorbell ringing disturbs his moment of completely warranted narcissism. He doesn't bother taking the coat off before he goes to open, figures that whoever it is deserves to be greeted by a truly spectacular sight. 

That thought is shot to the ground and trampled to death when he actually opens the door and finds himself standing face to face with a rain-soaked Harold. The human version, not the cat. Human Harold doesn't deserve the sight of Louis in a brand new coat.

“Why are you ringing my doorbell?” Louis asks after a moment of complete silence.

“To give you a heads up,” Harry says.

Louis' eyebrows draw together and he folds his arms over his chest. “About what? You somehow reproduced and the kid came out as an evil demigod who now intends on overthrowing the government and take over the country?”

“Do you ever tire of hearing yourself talk?”

“Of course not. Why would I?” Louis snarks. Harry drags a hand across his face, seemingly to calm himself down enough to not go off at Louis. Louis almost wishes he would, if only because he could use some entertainment. And an excuse to have Harry arrested. “Fine, okay, what is it, then?”

“I'm moving in,” Harry says with a look on his face that tells Louis he's having fun. If Harry's having fun, it can only mean bad news for Louis.

“You're moving in where?” he asks slowly.

“The building next door.” And oh, yes, Harry's definitely having fun. His eyes are glinting evilly in the light from the lamp on the ceiling and Louis... well, he feels a bit like shrieking in terror. 

He's much too manly for such displays of emotion, though, so he settles for an incredulous stare and an, “ _Excuse_ me? What do you mean you're moving into the building next door?”

“I mean that I've been looking for a new place to live for half a year now and I finally found the perfect flat.”

“Which just so _happens_ to be in the building next to mine?” Louis steps over the threshold and glares up at Harry who, to his credit, doesn't even flinch. Louis hisses like a cat who's had its tail stepped on. “This is Manchester! It's got hundreds of flats for rent and you want me to believe it's a coincidence that you're moving in right next to me?”

“Of course it's not a coincidence.” Louis' jaw drops in indignation and he's about to fire off a load of profanities for half the city to hear, but Harry beats him to it. “Niall tipped me off. He was here to see you sometime last week and when he left, he saw the for sale-sign outside on the street and he knew that I was looking for a flat, so he went inside and looked and then called me to tell me to get my arse over to see it for myself.”

Louis doesn't know with complete certainty what it feels like to be an angry hot air balloon that's about to explode due to too much hot air, but in that moment, he thinks he can imagine it pretty vividly. He expresses that anger by slamming the door in Harry's face and proceeds to spend the rest of the day watching horror movies. 

As Noah's about to be scared to death by Samara, Louis reaches a silent conclusion.

Niall Horan must be sentenced to death for crimes against humanity.

*

“You're not killing my boyfriend, Louis.”

Louis releases a languid moan that comes out muffled against the carpeted floor. He's been lying there on his front for a better part of the last half hour, because, honestly, if someone steps on him and kills him, what does he have to lose? It's been three days since he found out that he's the soon-to-be neighbour of Harold Styles and he has yet to plan out any survival tactics. 

“Why not?” he asks, looking up at Zayn's who's sitting on the couch. “He's clearly trying to kill me and fair's fair.”

Niall, whose head is resting in Zayn's lap, sticks his tongue out. “I'm not trying to kill you.”

Louis sits up in one abrupt motion and glares at Niall. “What other reason could you _possibly have_ for suggesting to Harry that he should move into the building next to mine?”

“I think you're blowing this way out of proportion, mate,” Zayn says. He doesn't as much as bat an eyelid when Louis directs his glare at him instead, just shrugs and takes a bite of the brownie on Niall's plate.

“I don't understand why you think it'll be such a problem,” Niall says. “He's not even gonna be in the same building as you. You're not gonna see each other any more often than you are now.”

“Which is too often because of your parties,” Louis grunts. “But that's not the point! The point is that he's gonna be in close proximity to me at all times and that he's therefore gonna have ten times as many chances to take me out.”

“Fine, as long as he kills you before you kill Niall,” Zayn says with a shrug. Niall grins dopily up at him and they share an obnoxiously loud kiss that has Louis huff out a grumpy string of curses. His friends get to be in love while he gets to be neighbours with Harry. 

When Louis was a kid, his mum used to say that the world could be cruel sometimes because it needed to balance out all the nice things it had to offer. Clearly, Louis has been assigned every last ounce of the cruelty, because this whole year has been one bad event after the other and he'd very much like for it to stop. 

What he wants is a life in which Harry is gone, a human bed companion who'll give him orgasms and post-coital cuddles and who'll take him out on cliché-stained dates and preferably a new job with reasonable hours and better pay. That's all.

*

Louis gets to work one grey, dreary and cold morning late in November only to find out that the entire cereal-shelf has collapsed at some point during the night and left boxes scattered all over the floor. Since he's the first one there and the one in charge of opening the store, he has no choice but to clean up the mess, salvage what can be salvaged and go to the storage in the back to replace what can't. It's tedious work that leaves him grumpy and it's therefore probably a bad way to start a shift that's gonna last for no less than eleven hours.

He spends the hours before lunch doing inventory in the cleaning supplies-section and the animal food-section, tries to navigate himself around the storage room in search for more Dettol Spray and ends up stumbling backwards over an empty pallet. It makes his bum hurt, so he takes a long lunch break and treats himself to an extra donut.

“Whatever happened to that New Year's resolution of yours?” Philip asks without looking at Louis, eyes glued to his phone screen. They're sitting in the break room, being the only ones left after Helena went back to work ten minutes earlier. “Something about not eating anything deep fried or otherwise ridiculously unhealthy, wasn't it?”

“I have no idea what you're on about,” Louis says thickly through a mouthful of donut. “I have no intentions of depriving myself of any of my life's few pleasures just for the sake of maybe getting to live for two weeks longer.”

“If you eat healthy, you can live for several years longer, not just two weeks,” Philip says.

“If I have to live those several years without eating the food I like, I don't see the point.”

Philip rolls his eyes at his phone and Louis kicks his leg underneath the table.

After that, everything starts going downhill. 

He comes out from the break room, heading towards the fruits- and vegetables-section and gets about halfway there before he spots a tall, big-nosed, familiar someone in the soap-aisle and stops dead in his tracks. 

For the sake of his own sanity, Louis hasn't offered as much as a single thought to Harry since the day he went over to Niall and Zayn's to threaten Niall with manslaughter. And it's been going pretty well, he thinks, considering how he doesn't even know if Harry ever actually did move into that flat next door. If he did, he's been making his existence there pleasantly invisible. But now he's standing in the middle of Louis' work place, wearing a pair of ratty joggers and a denim jacket that has seen better days and apparently he's looking for dish soap.

Sticking his nose in the air to try and gain a few inches of height, Louis strolls over to where Harry's standing, inspecting a bottle with purple contents. “I know the purple one is pretty, but it doesn't do shit when it comes to actually cleaning your plates and whatnot,” he says.

Harry turns his head and he looks genuinely surprised when his eyes fall on Louis. “You work here?” Harry asks.

“You shop here?” Louis retorts stupidly, keeping his hands on his hips. Mums always look scary when they do that and Louis figures that since he's practically a mum, what with his two cats to feed and love and take care of, the hands-on-hips gesture may make him look scary as well.

Harry's lips pull up in a wry smile. “Closest shop to my flat, innit?”

Louis wrinkles his nose. “When did you move in?”

“About a month ago.” Harry looks like he finds the entire scenario absolutely hilarious, like he gets off, humour-wise, on Louis questioning him. “I was expecting a basket of home made cupcakes from you the very day I got there – you know, as a house-warming gift or whatever, but no Lou-Moo showed up that day or any day since, neither with nor without cupcakes. Disappointing, Louis.”

Louis nearly snarls at the nickname and has to remind himself that he is, in fact, at work and should therefore at least _try_ to behave accordingly. “Oh, I'm sorry, Harry, must have slipped my mind,” he therefore settles for and then, because he simply can't contain himself: “I'd be happy to bake you some cupcakes when I get home. What kind do you like? With toe nails? Pubes? Maybe some sperm? I'm not sure where I can legally buy sperm from someone else, but I'd be happy to give you a taste of mine.” Well, he tried.

Harry just continues to look like he's having the time of his life and it _infuriates_ Louis, it makes him want to jump up on Harry's back and bite his neck and claw at his chest until blood starts seeping out.

“That sounds wonderful, Lou-Moo. Come over around seven tonight, yeah?” And that's all Harry says before he grabs a bottle of Ajax Lemon dish soap from the shelf and leaves.

Louis squints and sticks his tongue out at Harry's back as he watches him go. Oh, he'll bake those cupcakes, alright.

*

That evening, Louis thinks that maybe, just _maybe_ , he's taking things too far. He's standing by the counter in his kitchen with a bowl of cupcake batter in front of him and a small cup of... well, it looks a bit like frosting, only it really isn't. It's gooier and warmer and saltier and a hell of a lot more disgusting. The clock's closing in on six p.m., the flat is quiet, Molster is asleep, St. Harold is sitting on the kitchen table and Louis is seriously contemplating whether or not to pour a small amount of his own sperm into a bowl of cupcake batter. 

It'd be such an immature thing to do, even by Louis' standards and had it been anyone else, he'd had left the matter as the joke it was originally intended as. But it's Harry and Louis can't get the wonderful mental image of a shocked Harry when Louis knocks on his door and hands him a tray of sperm-cupcakes out of his head. He really wants to see Harry at a loss for words.

So he does it. Doing his best not to gag, he uses a small rubber spatula to scrape out every single drop of sticky, white liquid from the tea cup (that he makes a mental note to burn), lets it dribble into the batter and then hurries to mix it in before he can change his mind.

Louis is usually the person who'll lick every single tool used in a cake-making process. Today, he rinses everything thoroughly before he stuffs it all into the dish washer. St. Harold is inspecting him with poorly disguised terror and maybe a wee bit of arrogance in his yellow eyes.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Louis drones. “If you were human, you'd have been a far better person than I am, because clearly, I'm scum, but I'm scum who gets to put Harry in his rightful place, so who's the real winner here?” 

He snickers a little despite himself at the word 'scum'. So close to 'cum'.

It's ten minutes past seven when he makes his way out the door, down three flights of stairs and walks twenty metres along the pavement with a neat little basket filled with cupcakes in his hand. He even went through the trouble of making pink frosting for them and they look quite marvellous, if he may say so himself. As he's about to enter the building, it occurs to him that he has no idea which flat is Harry's and he curses lowly to himself under his breath. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he hurries to find Niall's number in his contact-list and presses call.

Two people have walked past him on their way through the door by the time Niall finally picks up with a grumpy, breathless, “ _What, Lou?_ ”

“You were having sex, weren't you?” Louis asks snidely. A middle-aged woman who walks past him with her tiny, furry dog on a short leash glares. He returns the gesture with sentiment.

“ _I still am, so you've got thirty seconds to tell me what you want,_ ” Niall says and Zayn chimes in with a, “ _You've got twenty, Louis! I need him to get back to work._ ”

Louis scrunches up his nose. “Just tell me what number Harry's flat is.”

And apparently Niall's quite desperate to get back to Zayn, because he replies without even asking why on earth Louis would wanna know that. “ _Third floor, number five,_ ” he says and hangs up.

Louis sticks his tongue out at the now black screen.

He nearly trips over his own feet when he's three stair-steps away from reaching the third floor and a fleeting thought of his sperm-filled cupcakes smeared all over Harry's doormat makes him smirk. The cupcakes remain in the basket, though, as Louis reaches out a hand and knocks on the door. There's a dead, dry and mostly brown Christmas wreath hanging on the upper half of it and Louis makes a face. Harry and his hipster ways, honestly. The faded jeans with partially ripped seams, the worn flannels, the constant smell of coffee and the odd music taste, he can understand, there's a certain charm to all of that, but _dead plants_? Louis thinks no.

It's a good twenty seconds before the door opens and a sleepy-looking Harry comes into view. He was probably taking his afternoon nap. Old people take afternoon naps, don't they? Louis' grandparents do.

Harry looks confused for all of three quarters of a second before his eyes fall on the basket that Louis is holding up in front of him. To Louis' great disappointment, Harry's jaw doesn't drop and his eyes don't widen; he does absolutely nothing at all that indicates that he's shocked.

“Glad to see you're a man of your word,” he simply says as he accepts the basket and turns around to head back inside. Louis remains standing where he is, disgruntled and maybe a faintest bit disappointed with Harry's lack of reaction, before Harry calls out a, “Are you coming in or are you just gonna stand there?”

Harry's flat, as it turns out, looks a lot like Niall's; light-coloured walls, dark floor, furniture with a heavy rustic touch and a silly amount of books on gigantic shelves that cover a better part of one of the walls. And it makes sense that this flat is similar to Niall's, because as reluctant as Louis is to admit it, Harry and Niall are two very similar people with very similar tastes in everything except foods and drinks. The only difference between them is that while Louis loves Niall, he'd much like to see Harry fall face first into a pile of warm horse shit.

Louis doesn't bother with manners when he sits down on the couch and puts his feet on the coffee table. It's not something he usually does, neither at home nor at other people's places, but since it's Harry's table, he feels that being a little extra rude could be a good idea. The cupcake-basket is sat right next to his left foot and he inspects it proudly while he waits for Harry to emerge from the kitchen, where he's rummaging around in search for something.

“Haven't got anything good to drink.” Harry walks past the couch and slumps down in a beanbag next to it instead. “I have a bottle of ancient old red wine that mum got me for Christmas a decade or two back, if you want some.”

Louis grimaces and shakes his head. “I don't drink wine.”

“More of a tequila-type?” Harry guesses.

“Vodka,” Louis corrects. “But tequila works, too.”

“Haven't got any of either, I'm afraid.”

“Whatever, I didn't come here to drink.” He makes an elaborate gesture towards the cupcake-basket. “I came to bring you these wonderful little creatures.”

“And I appreciate that,” Harry says and almost looks like he means it.

Louis smiles widely. “Do you? Do you _really_?”

One of Harry's eyebrows shoots up and Louis notes, with a jolt of satisfaction, that a bit of doubt seeps into the crevice on his forehead. “Shouldn't I?”

“Depends,” Louis says with a casual shrug, spreading his arms out along the top of the couch's backrest.

“On what?”

Louis smiles, brightly and prettily. “On how you feel about eating my sperm.”

“Your-” Harry clamps his mouth shut and diverts his gaze to the basket. It's very, very quiet for a few seconds. “You actually made...? For real?” He snorts and shakes his head. “Having a kink fest with you must be a right riot. No boundaries, have you?”

Louis frowns. That wasn't supposed to be Harry's reaction. Harry was supposed to splutter and stare and gape and tell Louis how insane he is, not compliment him on his lack of boundaries. And Louis has boundaries, thank you very much – quite a few of them, even. Not that he's about to tell Harry that, though, because if Harry wants to believe that Louis gets up to wild, semi-illegal, madly pleasurable things in his bedroom, then Louis sure as hell isn't about to ruin that for him.

“Save thoughts about me and my kink fests for your alone-time,” he barks nevertheless.

“Oh, I will,” Harry says, his voice light.

Louis sniffs. “You're a gross, old man.”

“I'm twenty-six, you're twenty-five. Hardly an age difference to make a-”

“ _Excuse you_ ,” Louis hisses. “I'm twenty-four, not twenty-five! Do I look like I'm five years away from thirty to you?”

“A bit. Your hairline's receding and you've got wrinkles around your eyes.”

Louis scoffs. If anyone's hairline is receding, it's Harry's. “Those wrinkles are there because I smile and laugh a lot instead of just nodding approvingly when I like something or find it funny.”

“And that's just one of the many qualities that make you the wonderfully irritating and obnoxious prat you are,” Harry says in a tone that indicates that what he just said was a scientifically proven fact.

It's not as if Louis hasn't been called irritating and obnoxious before, because, well, he kinda is both irritating and obnoxious, but in a charming way that leaves people intrigued and therefore prone to approach him in an attempt to get under his skin. Or at least his trousers. Now Harry's the one calling him irritating and obnoxious and Louis doesn't much care for it. Harry has no right to call Louis anything at all.

“That's an awfully mean thing to say to someone who went through the trouble of making you cupcakes, don't you think?” is all he says.

“You jerked off in said cupcakes, though.”

“Hey, now, what do you take me for? I didn't jerk off _in_ the cupcakes, I jerked off in a cup and then poured it into the batter.” Silent beat. “I even had to do it twice because the boys weren't productive enough the first time.” Harry looks less than impressed and Louis smirks. “As you can see, a lot of effort went into making these, so I'll be deeply offended if you don't eat at least one.”

Louis isn't a hundred percent sure, but through the thick layer of indifference on Harry's face, there seems to be something that resembles fascination. He keeps his eyes on Harry in anticipation of what's to come, though he isn't exactly sure what that is. A part of him expects to have the whole basket thrown at his face, so he mentally prepares to duck if Harry as much as raises his arm.

Harry never raises his arm. He does, however, lean forward and grabs one of the cupcakes. As Louis watches, nearly buzzing with expectancy, Harry inspects the cupcake closely with evaluative eyes. He switches his glance to Louis and keeps it there until he spots the silent challenge that's dancing like wildfire in Louis' eyes, then his lips quirk upwards in a smile that's to be interpreted as the non-verbal equivalent of a drawling, ' _Fine, if you insist._ '

Louis is part horrified, part annoyed, part... something else entirely that needs to get the hell away from his pelvic area when Harry takes the first bite. He chews slowly, which in Louis' opinion does nothing but to underline his resemblance to a cow. But, to Harry's credit, he keeps up a completely unfazed appearance, doesn't flinch even once as he takes bite after bite of the cupcake until he's eaten the entire thing and only the paper cup is left.

“Tasty,” he says and curls the paper into a ball. “A little salty, though. You should consider eating more fruit.”

Louis realises a little too late that his mouth has fallen open and is forming a small 'o'. Closing it so quickly it makes his teeth clank together, he shrugs his shoulders in what he can but hope translates to a nonchalant gesture. He certainly doesn't really feel particularly nonchalant. He feels warm, actually, especially his face and he wouldn't be all that surprised if his throat clogged up completely and left him for dead. Maybe he should die. Dying seems like a good alternative to sitting here and watch Harry smirk at him for being at a loss for words.

“I don't like fruit,” he says lamely, because he can't just sit here and let Harry win. It's a lie, too, because Louis loves fruit.

Harry doesn't dignify that with a response. He gets up on his feet and brushes a few crumbs off his jeans and Louis can't help but think that a tiny, teeny amount of his sperm is now on Harry's living room rug. It's nice rug, soft and large, doesn't even look like it'd leave a rug burn if he somehow, in whatever crazy parallel universe, were to end up naked on his back on it.

“Well, if that was all, Lou-Moo, I have things to do,” Harry says, effectively pulling Louis out of his train of thoughts.

“That's Niall's nickname for me, _Hairy_ ,” he says. “You're not allowed to use it.”

Harry grabs a hold of Louis' arm and hauls him to his feet, steering him towards the entrance hall. “Sure, Lou-Moo.”

Louis may be above making fart noises when someone agitates him, but he sure as hell isn't above pulling a foul grimace at the entrance door once Harry has shoved him through it and slammed it shut.

*

Niall isn't happy when he finds out about the cupcakes two days later. He calls Louis at fuck o'clock in the morning and shouts something about indecency and immaturity and a whole new low and a disgusting and unhygienic sense of humour that'll get him arrested if the government's health department ever was find out. Louis tells him that if the government's health department ever was to find out about phonecalls taking place before six a.m., Niall would be arrested, too, for crimes against humanity. 

It's a common type of crime for Niall to commit and somehow, Louis always seems to be the one on the receiving end.

Work gets busier and busier for each passing day in December as people get more and more stressed out over not being able to get all their shopping done before Christmas. Louis has always been one to take care of his presents long before the holiday rush starts, so he considers watching other people, strangers and friends alike, stress about it as A+ entertainment. 

Zayn in particular is a funny specimen this time of year, because he has a habit of thinking he has everything under control, only to realise three days before Christmas eve that he has absolutely nothing under control. It's happened every year for as long as Louis has known him and he and Niall have created a tradition of snickering about it together.

He stays at home over Christmas and celebrates Christmas day with Philip and Celia, a girl who used to work with them at Tesco before she moved on to a childcare centre. She's nosy like no other person he's ever known, so it doesn't come as a total surprise when she asks him, through a mouthful of chestnut stuffing, what the deal between him and Liam is now. It still stings, though and leaves his appetite somewhat reduced. Philip, bless his heart, has the brains to quickly steer the conversation in a different direction.

To absolutely no one in the western hemisphere's surprise, Niall hosts a New Year's party. Since there are few things Louis considers more depressing than sitting at home alone on New Year's eve while everyone else is out having fun and getting drunk, he goes. He's in for a bit of a nasty surprise, though, when there are only ten minutes left before midnight and he goes searching for Niall, only to find out that Liam's there. With his girlfriend. Louis hates her. He's barely spoken to her, pretty much always managed to get out of hanging out with her and Liam the numerous times Liam tried to make it happen, but he still hates her, because she's got Liam's arm around her waist and Liam's looking at her like she's hung the bloody moon. 

The closest thing Louis ever got to having Liam's arm around his waist was the time they fucked and Liam collapsed on his front next to him as soon as they were finished and his arm accidentally ended up draped across Louis' stomach. It's possible he's feeling a little bitter, but the bitterness is nothing compared to the hurt, really, because Liam's sitting right there, on the couch, next to a girl he's obviously completely infatuated with and who he's gonna kiss when the clock strikes midnight, and Louis... Louis isn't gonna kiss anyone, because the one person he'd want to kiss has a girlfriend.

“You're looking awfully depressed considering you're at a party.”

Louis doesn't have to look up to see who's talking. “No more depressed than you look on a daily basis,” he says.

Harry snorts. “How was your Christmas, darling?”

“Wonderful.”

“Good to hear. And why are you trying to catch Liam's attention by staring a hole in his forehead?”

Louis squints up at Harry and crosses his arms defensively. “Smooth transitions aren't your strong suit.”

“Being smooth in general isn't one of yours,” Harry retorts. They look at each other for a few seconds, Louis defiant, Harry amused. “You gonna answer my question?”

“Which was what again?” Louis asks.

“Why are you staring at Liam?”

Louis wants nothing more in that moment than to kick Harry's leg and make a run for it. “That, Hairy, is none of your business.”

“Niall hinted at something,” Harry carries on, as if he didn't hear Louis. “The two of you, you and Liam, used to live together, yeah?”

“Maybe.”

“And what? You got your knickers in a twist because he'd rather be living with his girlfriend than with you?”

That hits below the belt. Louis tightens his lips into a thin line, straightens his pose and plasters a smile on his face. “Pensioners whose hobbies include hanging out with innocent babies like Niall shouldn't judge other people's actions, especially not when they barely know said other people.”

Harry never gets a chance to reply, because a choir of loud, alcohol-fuelled voices start counting down from ten. People are scrambling to find their significant other or someone else to kiss and Louis can see Niall and Zayn spread out on the floor next to the coffee table, already lip-locked. They're disgusting and he hates them, so he spins around on his heel and stalks off in direction of the bathroom. It's empty, surprisingly enough and he closes the door before he puts down his drink on the toilet seat and stares down his own reflection in the mirror. He looks dreadful, with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes and a sweaty forehead and hair that's long since escaped from the carefully sculpted mess he created before he left home earlier.

He stands there, peering at his own pale, glassy-eyed face, until the cheering on the other side of the door finally dies down and once again becomes a low rumble of voices mixed with Zayn's god-awful version of a party playlist. Silently praying that he won't have to lay eyes on Liam again tonight, Louis opens the door and walks back out to the living room. Someone he doesn't know pushes into him, making him stumble sideways and his shoulder knocks painfully into the wall. Normally he'd shout a pointy-edged row of profanities after the pusher, but he's much too drunk and he just wants to go home before anything more bad can happen.

He says his goodbyes to Zayn and Niall, thanks them for a great party and takes a taxi home. His own flat feels blessedly empty and silent after the circus at Niall and Zayn's. Not fancying the thought of suffering from a hangover in the morning, he takes two aspirin and swallows them down with a glass of water before he shucks his clothes on the bathroom floor and heads off to bed.

Louis doesn't sleep well when he's drunk, he never has. His body feels heavy, but not in a comfortable way, more like something large and unwelcome has taken place inside him and added to his normal weight. And he's hot and clammy, despite the fact that he's naked and it can't be more than eighteen degrees in the room. So he tosses and turns and occasionally scratches his balls until he finds himself with an accidental hard on and has no choice but to get rid of the issue. 

He comes with Liam's name on his lips and pictures of Liam's face in his head and falls asleep with tears pressing against his eyelids, because he can't quite figure out when he became so pathetic.

When he wakes up, he still feels a little bit drunk, but mostly he feels sick and his head is hurting. It takes him a moment or two to realise it's not morning yet and that the reason he's woken up is that his phone is ringing. He manages to locate it and pick up, responding with a croaky, “Niall?” because he can't think of anyone other than Niall who'd be calling him at whatever-the-hell-o'clock-it-is.

“ _Nope, sorry to disappoint,_ ” says a voice that's definitely not Niall's.

Louis rubs his eyes, trying to get his semi-drunken mind to make sense of the situation. “Harry?” he asks when he realises there's no sense to be made out of anything right now, especially not out of the fact that Harry's calling him in the middle of the night.

“ _Hi._ ”

“Why are you calling?” And then, because that sounded much too nice, “I was asleep, you dimwitted fucker.”

“ _Good to know sleepiness doesn't turn you into a cuddly ball of mush._ ”

“What do you want?”

“ _Just calling to check in,_ ” Harry says after a moment of silence. “ _You ran off when we were in the middle of a conversation. Not very nice of you._ ”

Louis huffs. “I wasn't aiming to be nice.”

“ _You never do, pumpkin._ ”

“I do, too! Just not when I'm with you, because you never aim to be nice when you're with me.” It's possible Louis is a little more than semi-drunk.

“ _I was nice enough to call you to see if you were okay, wasn't I?_ ”

“Apparently. Wanna explain the sudden kindness?”

“ _I'm drunk, I can't explain anything._ ”

“I'll take a rain check, then.”

“ _You do that._ ” 

They fall into silence and Louis can hear Harry move around on the other end of the line. It sounds like he's in bed judging by the rustling sounds of what Louis is pretty sure is a duvet scraping against sheets. He wonders if Harry sleeps naked, if he's sprawled out on his own bed in the building next door, long limbs tangled up in the sheets as he's talking to Louis... The question almost falls off the tip of his tongue and he only barely manages to catch himself in time. He is curious, though and he can't stop thinking about how it's possible that he and Harry are on the phone, talking to each other in hushed voices, whilst naked. His dick gives a feeble twitch that he pointedly ignores.

“So... was that all?” he asks and curses inwardly at the sudden rasp in his voice.

“ _You still haven't told me if you're okay._ ”

“I'm fine.” 'Fine' is relative, but he's not sick or starving and his flat isn't on fire, so according to some definitions, he's definitely fine.

“ _Okay, then I guess that was all._ ”

“Alright.” Louis hesitates for a second. “Goodnight.”

“ _You, too._ ” The line goes dead and Louis is out like a light within thirty seconds. His phone falls to the floor and he ends up stepping on it when he stumbles out of bed the next morning. As he bends over to pick it up, he curses Harry for having called him and therefore for having been an indirect reason as to why his poor phone had to spend the night on the cold, hard floor.

*

He doesn't go about the entire next day thinking about the phonecall. 

Or, well, he kinda does, but only because he's a curious bastard and when people he's only ever communicated with through sarcasm-dripping remarks decides to call him up at four in the morning to see how he's doing, it's only reasonable that he'd like to know why. That's the explanation he gives Niall, anyway, when he tries to get some information on the ongoings of last night out of him. According to Niall, Harry left a little after three in the morning, a little bit drunk, though not so much he couldn't get home on his own and after that, he was dead to the world.

Louis accepts the lack of useful information with grace and dignity and minimal amounts of scowling.

A week later, he's on his way to work to take the evening shift and just as he exits his building, Harry appears around the corner, one Tesco-bag in each hand and with a truly awful hat perched on top of his head. There's no place, nor any time, to hide and even if there was, Louis is much too mature for such childish actions. So he drags his beanie so far down it almost covers his eyes and pulls the collar of his coat up to over his nose and hopes that he looks like a scary undercover agent that Harry will have no desire to interact with.

Unfortunately, Harry is apparently braver than he appears from the outside. Or maybe Louis' disguise isn't as good as he thought. Either way, Harry stops when he's a metre away from Louis and raises a judgemental eyebrow. “Good to see you, too, Louis,” he says.

Louis lets his collar back down and schools his face into one of indifference. “Of course it is.”

“How have you been?”

Louis narrows his eyes. Since when do the two of them exchange awkward pleasantries on the street like a couple of middle-aged mums who are forced to socialise on occasion because their sons are on the same football team even though the reality of the situation is that they can't stand each other? Louis' mum did that with Dylan's mum and to this day, Louis has trouble understanding why. If you don't like someone, it's only decent to be upfront about it. 

It doesn't fly over his head that it's probably philosophies like that that are the reason people tend to deem him somewhat immature.

“You mean since you phoned me in the middle of the night to check up on me?” Louis asks. Why dance around the elephant when you can dance with it?

Harry doesn't seem fazed at all. “No, I mean how have you been since Niall's New Year's party where you spent five minutes staring at Liam while looking like you were sucking on a particularly sour lemon and then ran away from me five seconds before midnight?”

Louis shuffles his feet and scowls. “I'm gonna be late for work, I have to go.” He makes sure to knock into Harry's shoulder as he walks past him, but doesn't get further than a few steps down the street before he's being called back.

“When are you getting off?”

“Why?” Louis demands, mildly suspicious.

“Good to know when it's safe to go shopping again.”

“You've already done your shopping,” Louis says, gesturing towards the bags.

“I forgot a couple of things.”

“Then go to Sainsbury's.”

“I don't like Sainsbury's, they've got rotten fruit.”

“No, they don't.”

“I bought five apples there two weeks ago and two of them were mushy.”

“What would you buy five apples for?”

“To eat them.”

“Oh, yes, of course, you old people need to keep your immune system healthy somehow.”

“Damn straight we do.” Harry's lips twitch upwards in a wry smile and he shifts the bags in his hands, rolling his shoulders. “I take it you don't wanna tell me when you get off.”

He considers it. As much as Harry makes him hiss, he can't deny that he's curious and it does sound like Harry's planning on paying him a visit later tonight, so... “If you bring me fatty take-out dinner, you can come over at eleven.”

Harry doesn't miss a beat. “What do you like?”

“Everything but Thai.” He spins on his heel and walks away without waiting for a response and pretends not to hear Harry say, “It's a date,” right before he rounds a corner. As soon as he's out of sight, he rolls his eyes. A date. As if.

None of his decent co-workers are sharing his shift, it's only him, Grumpy José, Calvin the Fossil and Helena, so he actually spends a full eight hours working, only taking a quick break at seven to eat a banana and start a game of online Scrabble with Zayn. He ends his shift a little before he's supposed to in order to avoid having to be the one to close up for the night. It's such a tedious job and he won't soon be forgetting the vicious scolding he got from Grumpy José a few months back when he was in charge of locking up and forgot to turn off the coffee maker in the break room. (“You could have lit the whole place on fire, you irresponsible brat!”)

He gets home a little past eleven to the smell of curry filling his nostrils. For a moment, he closes his eyes and breathes in with a blissful smile on his lips, silently thankful that despite all the aspects of life that Harry has terrible taste in, he seems to have good taste in take-out. Then he finds himself feeling alarmed, because how the hell did Harry get in? Maybe it's not Harry who's here at all. Maybe a criminal overheard their conversation earlier and decided that to lure Louis into his own flat with the promise of delicious take-out would be a nifty twist to the old 'break in, steal valuables, kill resident'-crime. He half-believes that theory until it occurs to him that an actual killer would probably have more pressing things to worry about than creative ways to commit their next crime. Unless it's a psychopath.

“Is there a psychopath with Indian take-out in my living room?” he therefore calls without moving from his spot in the entrance hall. It feels safe there. “If so, I'd appreciate it if you could tell me now so I have a chance at escaping with my life still intact.”

“I don't know about the psychopath-part, but I have Indian take-out.”

Louis' shoulders slump in relief and he throws off his jacket and kicks his shoes off before he heads into the living room, where he finds Harry on the couch, feet perched up on the coffee table while _Avatar_ is playing on TV.

He sits down in his usual corner of the couch where the cushions are perfectly shaped after his arse. “How the hell did you get in here?” he asks once he's gotten comfortable.

“Door was unlocked,” Harry says. “You should be more careful.”

Louis scowls. “And why exactly are you here? I told you to come over at eleven thirty.”

“You said eleven.”

“Why would I tell you to come over at eleven when I get off at eleven?”

“Beats me, Lou-Moo.”

“Hairy.”

They sit and eat in silence and Louis pretends to pay attention to the movie while in reality, he just wants to know why exactly Harry is on his couch, eating take-out that Louis will never get the smell of out of the flat. Harry finishes his food first and he puts the empty container on the table along with the utensils and then leans back, crosses one leg over the other and sets his eyes in Louis.

“Are you gonna start talking now?” Louis asks, only too happy to have an excuse to turn off the movie. He never cared for those blue people running around in the artificial-looking jungle.

“Am I gonna start talking about what?” Harry asks.

“About what's going on,” Louis says and puts his food-container down on the table next to Harry's. “Why you called me on New Year's, why you wanted to come over tonight.”

Harry doesn't respond at once. He's never, not once, appeared fidgety when Louis has been around, but he kinda does now; fingers playing absentmindedly with the hem of his thin, white t-shirt, teeth nibbling carefully on his lower lip, eyes darting back and forth between Louis and the black TV screen.

“Am I not allowed to?” he asks eventually.

Louis scoffs and sits up, folds his leg Indian-style and perches his elbows on his knees. “Yes, obviously you're allowed to since I have yet to file a restraining order against you, but that doesn't mean it makes any sense. I don't know if you've noticed, Harry, but you and I don't really see eye to eye.”

“Just being a decent human being,” Harry says. He smiles, just a small, sardonic tilt of his lips and then gets up on his feet and adds, “I know that may be a concept that's hard for you to understand, but that's what it is.”

Louis isn't exactly sure of how good a liar Harry is, so he doesn't know if the sincerity on Harry's face is real or if it's just an act. He wants to think it's an act, because that'd mean there's a more interesting reason behind all of this than Harry _just being a decent human being_. Honestly. If he was gonna serve Louis a lie, he'd hopefully have come up with a better one. 

Maybe it's just something that's going on in Louis' head – it wouldn't be the first time –, but as they look at each other, it feels a bit like there's an invisible cloud of uncertainty descending down into the space between them. He doesn't know what to make of it, though and apparently neither does Harry, because after a few seconds, he gives Louis a nod and then walks away without another word. 

It's all very weird. It must be Harry's fault.

Louis remains sitting down until he can hear that Harry's put his shoes on and is putting on his jacket before he bounces to his feet and tiptoes out to the entrance hall. He leans his shoulder against the doorframe and crosses his arms over his chest. “You're weird,” he says matter of factly.

Harry stops with his scarf halfway bundled around his neck and smiles thinly. “You're the one who told me to come over and bring food,” he says.

“Yeah, _after_ you insinuated that you wanted to come over,” Louis shoots back. “I didn't invite you to come over because I, like, _wanted_ your company, if that's what you're trying to say. Because I didn't. Your company is everything but bright and shiny and pleasant, it's... dark and matte, like a particularly depressing evening.” It sounds ridiculous, even to his own ears, but he keeps his chin up and refuses to let go of the defiant wrinkle that has automatically found its place on his nose.

Harry takes a step closer. “You're comparing me to the weather now? Very romantic of you, I appreciate it.”

“Being compared to the weather is only romantic if it's the stars or the moon or the sun or the rain or- oh, whatever, it's romantic if it's anything but a grey, moist, English November night, which is what I compared you to just now.”

“No, you compared me to a dark, matte, particularly depressing evening. That can be romantic.”

“There's nothing romantic about depression, Hairy.”

Harry shakes his head. “You're impossible.”

“And you're delusional.”

“Everyone has their imperfections, Lou-Moo.”

“But not everyone lets their imperfections turn them into bitter old men who invite themselves into the homes of pretty youngsters.”

“It's a one year age difference. Are you ever gonna let it go?”

“Why would I do that?”

Harry rolls his shoulders, straightening out the collar of his coat as he peers down at Louis. “Like I said: Impossible.”

Louis doesn't know when that nice, comfortable space of air between him and Harry vanished, but apparently it did at some point, because if either one of them take as much as one, tiny step forward now, their toes will be touching. Louis isn't sure how he feels about that just yet. It might take him a few days to decide. He doesn't have a few days to decide, though, because Harry's standing very close to him and his abnormally large nose and peculiar alien eyes are an awful lot more prominent up close than on a distance. Louis wants to mock him for it, but he can't bring himself to.

“You're too tall,” is what he eventually chooses to break the silence with.

“Too tall for what?” Harry asks.

“For...” He flounders, purses his lips in concentration as he tries to think of a witty response. “For standing so close to me. You're dwarfisising me.” Well. Sometimes his wit just doesn't wanna cooperate.

Harry grins wolfishly. “Oh, darling, you don't need my help to be dwarfisised. You're doing that just fine on your own.”

“I am _one_ centimetre away from being of average height, you know,” Louis says, holding a finger up to Harry's face. “ _One_ centimetre.”

“Which means you're smaller than average.” 

The double meaning doesn't fly over Louis' head, so naturally, he hisses. Harry snickers. “You,” he starts, moving his finger down to jab at Harry's chest, “are so immature if you think having a go at my genitals is gonna get to me. I'm too evolved for that kind of bullshit.”

Harry grabs Louis' finger and well, Louis isn't one to live his life by the good old 'big hands'-rule (mostly because he's had it proven false one time too many), but Harry does have big hands. They're about the same size as Zayn's, actually and even though Louis would prefer not to ever be reminded of the one time he saw Zayn's hard dick in all its proud, naked glory, the big hands-rule did turn out to apply to him, so... And even if it doesn't with Harry, big hands can be very nice on their own if the owner knows what to do with them.

And why, again, does he care about whether or not Harry knows what to do with his hands? Louis wants to skin himself alive and offer his remains as Christmas food for Molster and St. Harold.

“Look at that, you've got small hands, too.” So Harry's head is on the same track's as Louis'. Fine, then.

Louis takes a step closer and tilts his chin up. They're standing too close together for him to be able to get a clear view of Harry's face now, so he appears a little blurred around the edges and Louis... Louis allows his brain to shut down, because he'd rather not know about any of the thoughts it'd without a doubt come up with if he let it stay on.

“I think you should tell me what you're doing here,” he says with his eyes glued to Harry's lips. They're stupid lips, really, but they're there and they look... okay when they're not polluted by horse teeth. White, straight and shiny horse teeth, but still horse teeth.

“Okay,” Harry says, easy as that and Louis' eyes snap up to meet his and he's about to utter a confused, ' _What? _', but he doesn't get that far before his lips find themselves otherwise occupied.__

__And, okay._ _

__Alright._ _

__Harry's lips are on his, insistent and sharp, but Louis doesn't feel an immediate need to barf, so that's probably a good sign. He also doesn't feel an immediate need to pull away or to smack Harry or to start shrieking for the entire neighbourhood to hear, so... he doesn't._ _

__Instead he does the only other thing that seems reasonable. He throws himself into the kiss with as much enthusiasm as he can muster up._ _

__He's happy that he decided to turn his brain off, because if he hadn't, he knows he would have been freaking out over the fact that he's _kissing Harry_. But his brain is asleep, it doesn't know that it has any reason to freak out, so Louis lets the heat building up in his chest unfurl, making its way up and out and displaying itself through a high-pitched noise that he will deny having ever made if Harry one day decides to confront him about it._ _

__Along with a black hoodie, Louis is still in the jeans he wore to work; they're old and well worn and fits loosely around his legs. Harry, on the other hand, has his jacket on and his scarf and his shoes and Louis feels violated, because that means they're not on the same level. Without detaching his lips from Harry's, he shoves Harry's jacket off with as little finesse as he can. It lands on the floor in a pile, seconds later to be joined by the scarf and the shoes._ _

__And Louis isn't a hundred percent sure where this is all going, if making out messily against the wall of his entrance hall is as far as they're gonna go. If so, he thinks he's okay with it, actually. Though, admittedly, the thought of having to get himself off later while thinking about Harry is more than just a little degrading._ _

__Harry grabs onto Louis' hips with both hands and it hurts a bit, so Louis responds by digging his fingernails into the back of Harry's neck, pulling him in closer so that their teeth clash together. Muffled noises tear from their throats simultaneously, Harry's more of a grunt, Louis' closer to a whine. He does like to whine. As his back arches off the wall, his hands come up to tangle in Harry's hair and he has to swallow down a surprised huff at how soft it is. He halfway expected to get his fingers full of product._ _

__It's getting warmer, so much so that Louis can feel a sweat starting to break out on his forehead and it's all kinds of lovely, because it's been far too long since he last had someone to get sweaty with. Harry's hands are toying with the hem of Louis' jumper, pushing it up, inch by inch, until it's budged up around his waist and a shiver runs through him. He presses his body closer to Harry's and he's far beyond the point of being worried about _whose_ body this actually is, so he revels in the heat and bites not so gently at Harry's bottom lip, swiping his tongue along the quickly fading teeth marks to soothe them._ _

__Warm fingers are thumbing at the waistline of his jeans, snaking their way inside and under the elastics of his boxers. Because he can't help himself, he makes an unintelligible sound deep in his throat, wordlessly encouraging Harry to... well, do whatever the fuck he pleases. Louis isn't picky._ _

__A fraction of a second later, he finds himself being slammed against the wall with so much force that his head bounces off it and he breaks away from the kiss to glare at Harry. “Rude,” he says, out of breath and with cheeks that are more than just a little red._ _

__“I thought rude was your mother tongue,” Harry says, not equally, but almost as breathless as Louis. He hasn't retracted his hands from their place halfway down Louis' pants, but he's not doing anything either, just keeps them there, as if waiting for someone to tell him what to do. Louis prefers someone who at the very least has the balls to grope him properly without being outright _asked_ to do it. Honestly._ _

__“Were you planning on standing there like a coat rack all night or are we actually gonna get somewhere?” he therefore asks._ _

__“Here? In your entrance hall?” Harry looks around. “I'm an old man, Louis.”_ _

__“I wasn't gonna let you fuck me, if that's what you think,” Louis, squinting. “So don't you worry about your back breaking from having to hold me up against the wall.”_ _

__Harry gives him a flat stare. “I was thinking more about how getting off in an entrance hall feels like something we should have grown out of by now.”_ _

__Louis grins and wiggles his eyebrows. “Do you _want_ to get off in an entrance hall?”_ _

__“Not really, no.”_ _

__“You're boring,” Louis grumps. “Fine, okay, whatever, bedroom it is.”_ _

__Louis' bedroom is a mess, mostly because there are clothes lying absolutely everywhere, but it's not like he's trying to impress Harry or anything, so he ignores it as they make their way across the floor and over to the bed._ _

__It goes silent for a moment when they're standing there and for the first time since their lips met, Louis feels a hint of awkwardness in the air._ _

__He needs that awkwardness to disappear, because otherwise he might end up sending Harry out the door right now and he's _not_ gonna walk around for the rest of his life thinking about that time he almost got together with Hairy Styles. It'll lead to them being uncomfortable around each other for several months to come and he can't have that; he needs for things between him and Harry to stay exactly the way they are, needs to be able to keep being snarky with Harry and have Harry be glaringly unimpressed in return. He doesn't know for sure what that need stems from, but it's there and he's not interested in questioning it right now._ _

__Grabbing a fistful of the front of Harry's shirt, he yanks forcefully, sending them both tumbling backwards down on the bed in a mess of limbs. Harry doesn't hesitate to get his lips back on Louis' and if Louis wasn't so busy trying to get Harry's shirt off while simultaneously kissing back with so much enthusiasm that his tongue starts feeling numb in a matter of seconds, he'd may have complimented Harry on finally growing on a pair._ _

__Only Louis knows very well that Harry has a pair, because he feel it against his own pair. Or, well, no, maybe not the _pair_ , exactly, but that's definitely Harry's-_ _

__Louis' train of thought comes to a screeching halt, courtesy of an embarrassing whimper that it takes him a moment to realise came from his own mouth. Harry's palming him through his jeans and Louis' hips buck up on their own accord, desperately chasing the friction. He breaks the kiss and manages to get Harry's shirt over his head, throwing it aside and lifts his body up high enough to get his own hoodie off as well and then they're half naked and pressed against each other, hot palms roaming frantically, suddenly desperate to touch and to be touched. Either it's been so long since Louis last had a physical interaction of the sexual kind that he's forgotten how it feels or Harry's skin really is unusually warm and soft._ _

__Louis' thighs are forming a narrow frame around Harry's hips and as their kisses grow sloppier and their grunts and moans become more sporadic, they start rocking together, the intensity of their movements increasing for each slide forward. It feels good, very good, like _painfully good_ and painfully good is way more good than dry-humping should feel, if you ask Louis, mainly because he's not fifteen years old and his dick knows that there are greener pastures out there. But even though his dick _knows_ this, it doesn't seem to care, what with the way it keeps twitching in his underwear as their grinding gets dirtier and more purposeful. _ _

__Louis may be younger than Harry, but he's not so young he'd feel okay about coming in his pants._ _

__Harry breaks the kiss and Louis is about to voice a complaint, but Harry's head falls down into the crook between his shoulder and neck and his lips latches onto the skin there instead and the complaint dies in Louis' throat. In its place comes a moan that tears from his throat, strangled and breathless. He digs his heels into the back of Harry's thighs and claws his way down his back until he reaches the waistline of Harry's stupid corduroy trousers. He thinks they're probably past the point of having to ask for permission to do things like removing clothes from each others' bodies, so instead he just... does it. The trousers aren't particularly tight and he manages, with a bit of a struggle, to unbutton them before he yanks them down far enough that Harry's cock springs free and- wait, what?_ _

__“You're not wearing underwear.” Louis swallows thickly in an attempt to hide how out of breath he is. “Why aren't you wearing any underwear?”_ _

__Harry raises an eyebrow at him. “Didn't have a clean pair, couldn't be arsed to do the laundry.”_ _

__“You're a pig.”_ _

__“Oh, yeah, talk dirty to me, baby.”_ _

__“Apparently you have enough filth in your life as it is.”_ _

__“And yet here I am with you.”_ _

__“With your dick hanging out.”_ _

__“With my dick hanging out,” Harry agrees. His eyes drift down for a moment. “I think it'd be nice if your dick could be hanging out as well. They could hang out together.”_ _

__Louis hisses. “No, absolutely not. No horrible puns while you're in bed with me. Ever. I will slaughter you.”_ _

__Harry goes oddly quiet at that, looks down at Louis' flushed face and swollen lips with an inscrutable sense of depth in his eyes that makes Louis feel both uneasy and curious. “Should I make a note of that for future reference?” Harry asks eventually, and... _oh_. Louis figures he should start thinking before he opens his mouth and utters potentially life-ruining words. Not right now, though. He doesn't wanna start thinking right now. So he doesn't answer the question, instead puts a hand on the back of Harry's neck and pulls him in for a kiss. _ _

__They kiss and they kiss and they kiss until they're right back where they left off, except now Harry's tugging at Louis' jeans and boxers to get them off. He sits up between Louis' spread legs and tosses both of their remaining clothing to the side and then he lies back down, straddling one of Louis' thighs while hitching the other one over his hip and their cocks slide together, pressed between their stomachs. Louis can feel Harry's balls against his and Louis generally isn't a big fan of balls, he finds them pretty disgusting actually, but right now he's just _so hard_ and the muscles in his stomach are clenching with the effort of holding it together. _ _

__They're no longer kissing, really, it's more like they're panting into each others' mouths, bodies sweaty where they meet. It's pretty gross, in the way that sex is always gross, with all its fluids and smells and sounds and odd sensations, but it's so _good_. Louis feels Harry's cock blurt out drops of pre-cum that their movements smear out over their lower abdomens and it makes it all feel even dirtier._ _

__Harry's hips are starting to stutter, like he's close to finishing and Louis is not okay with that because _he_ wants to finish first._ _

__“Don't you dare come yet,” he therefore threatens, promptly followed by a moan when Harry tweaks one of his nipples._ _

__“Why not?” Harry asks. His fingers are digging into the soft skin on Louis' hips and if Louis hadn't been so concentrated on just reaching his goddamned orgasm once and for all, he'd have yelled at Harry for leaving ugly marks on his otherwise flawless body. Flawless. Yes._ _

__“Because _I_ wanna come.” He bucks his hips upwards for more friction and whines loudly in his throat. It's maddeningly delicious how his wet cock rubs against Harry's thigh._ _

__Louis isn't sure exactly how, but suddenly they're in a race to be the first one to finish. Their grinding loses all its finesse and Harry seems to no longer give two fucks about whether or not he's hurting Louis, because he goes as far as to smack Louis' arse. And not that Louis is ever gonna admit it out loud, but that's the final drop for him. He comes with a hoarse shout, hands tightening on Harry's shoulders as he rides it out and Harry follows half a minute later before he collapses on top of Louis, panting loudly against his shoulder._ _

__Then it's quiet._ _

__Very, very quiet._ _

__Eerily quiet._ _

__Louis considers threading his fingers through Harry's hair, pet it a little bit, kiss it maybe, just because it seems like the logical thing to do. But before he can make up his mind, Harry rolls off him. Blinking slowly with eyelids that suddenly feel heavy with exhaustion after a long day of work and an unexpected encounter with an unexpectedly naked Harry, Louis watches as Harry gets out of bed and start gathering his clothes and putting them on._ _

__Not once does he look at Louis or acknowledge his presence in any other way and okay, if that's how he wants to play it, Louis sure as hell isn't gonna be the idiot who'll force him into any interactions. So he flips around on his side, his back facing Harry (and the door) and reaches for his duvet, which he pulls over himself with a violent yank that he hopes gets his message across. It seems like it does, because twenty seconds later, the sound of Harry's footsteps against the hardwood floor is in the air, then the door closes and Louis is alone._ _

__Alone and grumpy and cold and with a hollow feeling in his chest that he used to associate with Liam and that he from now on is apparently also gonna have to associate with Harry._ _

__*_ _

__Louis wishes he could blame his bad mood the next day on something other than Harry, because admitting that his bad mood _is_ because of Harry means admitting that Harry's gotten into his head and no, absolutely not. Louis cannot tolerate that. So when Philip asks him what's put him in such a charming mood when he gets to work at seven o'clock, he says that he couldn't sleep last night, which isn't at all a lie since he spent almost two hours tossing and turning after Harry left ( _without as much as a bloody word_ ) before he finally fell asleep._ _

__“I don't believe you,” Philip says matter of factly as he attempts to balance a packet of toilet paper on top of an already wobbling stack. “You've showed up here with less than two hours of sleep on more than one occasion and it's never affected your mood like this.”_ _

__And that might be true, but Louis isn't about to tell Philip that what's really on his mind is that he hooked up with Harry Styles last night and that his world is now possibly on the verge of a fiery collapse. Okay, so maybe it's not that bad, but he does feel like something's changed, like another bundle of issues has been added to the already existing mess that is the inside of his head. Because he doesn't know where he and Harry stand anymore. If they run into each other on the street, how's he meant to react? Does he go on like before? Does he ignore Harry completely? Does he turn around and run in the opposite direction? He has no idea and it's unsettling._ _

__But a week passes and then another and Louis doesn't see as much as the back of an ugly, old coat on the street and he comes to the conclusion that Harry must have gone and drowned in a puddle of shame. He tries to casually ask Niall if he knows what Harry's been up to lately, but that only gets Niall suspicious._ _

__“Why? You gonna bake him more sexually assaulting pastries?” he asks while exchanging a look of complete and utter resignation with Zayn, who merely snorts back._ _

__So Louis quickly steers the conversation onto a different topic._ _

__February arrives rather rudely with endless amounts of rain and Louis doesn't know why he's even remotely surprised. Zayn has his birthday party a few weeks after his actual birthday and Louis should probably feel bad about the fact that he's up north visiting his mum and his sisters then and therefore can't attend, but truthfully, he's relieved._ _

__The thing is, Harry's gonna be there and it's been over a month since _the incident_ and Louis doesn't know if it's just a coincidence or if Harry's actively avoiding him, but either way, the point is that they haven't seen each other as much as once, not even on a distance, since then. Louis refuses to have their reunion be at a party, where he'll be drunk and therefore far too likely to say or do something stupid. Like drag Harry off to Niall and Zayn's bedroom, push him down on the bed and ride him into oblivion and- _ _

__Nope, no, absolutely not, not when he's got a baby on his lap and his mum sitting right next to him._ _

__He stays with his family for five days. That's about as long as he can manage with five siblings running around in the house, two of whom are tiny people who demand his attention at all hours of the day and his mum constantly asking whatever happened with Liam and when the two of them are planning on getting together for real._ _

__“You've been tiptoeing around each other for years,” she says over dinner one afternoon. “I don't understand why it has to be so difficult for you to sit down and lay your cards on the table. I didn't raise you to run from your feelings, did I?” She answers her own question before anyone else can: “No, I did not.”_ _

__She's always loved Liam. Everyone has always loved Liam._ _

__Louis has always loved Liam._ _

__Just too goddamned bad Liam didn't reciprocate that love in the way that Louis wanted him to._ _

__“If you lay all your cards on the table before you've gotten a look at what your opponent's got up his sleeve, you could end up losing quite spectacularly,” Louis says dully with his eyes on his plate. She doesn't reply, just looks at Louis with sad eyes. Maybe she takes the hint, though, because that's the last time she brings up the matter of Liam._ _

__He takes the train home the day after Valentine's. In one of the toilets at the station, he finds a teddy bear with a heart embroided on its stomach, hanging by its neck from a peg on the wall. It looks sad, so Louis takes it down and puts it in the trash instead. Better buried than having its humiliation and rejection put on display for everyone to see while they're washing their hands after taking a piss in an ill-smelling public toilet. The scene feels uncannily metaphorical._ _

__It's a struggle to drag his suitcase up the stairs when he gets home. He manages eventually, but he's sweaty and panting by the time he reaches the top and has to lean against the wall for a few seconds to catch his breath before he locates his keys and unlocks the door, pulling the suitcase inside after himself._ _

__He almost misses it, probably would have if St. Harold hadn't come strolling out to the entrance hall to greet him and ask for a pat on the head. But as he bends over to give the furry little head a scratch, his eyes fall on something white and square on the floor. It's an envelope, he realises and he picks it up slowly. As St. Harold is joined by Molster and they both start rubbing their bodies against his legs and, in Molster's case, nipping at his toes, Louis pries the envelope open and pulls out the small piece of paper inside._ _

___Niall told me you went to visit your family, dunno when you'll be back, but gimme a call when you are._ _ _

___Harry_ _ _

__Louis frowns. First he's vaguely pleased that the cold war they've had going on seems to be over. Then he's angry. Because first of all, how did Harry get his little note into Louis' flat? And second of all, this is not at all fair – Harry's had several days to prepare himself for a possible phone call from Louis, whereas Louis himself just got home and hasn't had as much as a second to prepare. And _third of all_ , how the hell does Harry expect Louis to call him when he doesn't even have Harry's number? And _fourth of all_ , what's with the melodramatic envelope? Why not just send a text like a normal person? Because Harry's a coward and not a normal person, that's why._ _

__Louis mutters out several profanities directed at Harry as he drags the suitcase into his bedroom and starts unpacking. He's just put away the last jumper and is about to stuff the suitcase into the back of the closet when his phone rings. His heart does a somersault at the sound and he's not disappointed when he picks the phone up from his pocket and sees that it's Niall who's calling. He's _not_._ _

__“Hey,” he says, trying and failing to balance the suitcase on top of an empty shoe box._ _

__“ _You gotten home yet?_ ” Niall asks. “ _I talked to your mum and she said you should be home by eight, but-_ ”_ _

__“I really wish you'd stop calling my mum.”_ _

__“ _I'd have just called you, but you weren't picking up._ ”_ _

__“Sorry, didn't hear it ring.”_ _

__“ _You never do._ ”_ _

__Louis closes the door to his closet and he knows that the next time he opens it, the suitcase is gonna fall out, along with the shoe box and a couple of t-shirts. He'll just have to make do with the clothes that are already outside the closet for as long as possible._ _

__“Yes, well, I've been busy.” He sits down on the chair by his desk. “What's up?”_ _

__“ _Did you see Harry's letter?_ ”_ _

__“I- yes. How do you know about the letter?”_ _

__“ _How do you think it got inside your flat?_ ”_ _

__Louis' eyebrows knit together. “You broke into my home to deliver a note?”_ _

__“ _I have a key, you sod. You gave me one when you moved in, remember? For emergencies._ ”_ _

__“And was leaving that note on my floor an emergency?”_ _

__“ _I don't know,_ ” Niall says, voice pensive. “ _Harry asked me to give it to you, but Zayn thought I'd forget if I waited until you got back home, which he was probably right about, so I just went and put it on that ugly Ikea dresser you have._ ”_ _

__“It was on the floor when I got here fifteen minutes ago.”_ _

__Niall sounds disgustingly fond when he says, “ _It was probably Molster._ ”_ _

__“Don't blame my cat for your incompetence, Niall,” Louis huffs. He thinks to himself that Niall's probably right, though; Molster is a bit of a shit like that._ _

__“ _So, wanna tell me why Harry, of all people, wrote you a note that he was so desperate for you to get that he used me as a messenger boy? And why he didn't just give you call instead? He already has your number._ ”_ _

__“Probably because you've gossiped to him about how I never hear my phone when it rings. And no, I don't wanna tell you that,” Louis says curtly. If he was gonna tell someone about him and Harry, Niall would not be on the top of the list of candidates, because Niall doesn't know how to keep a secret from Zayn, so if he finds out, Zayn is also gonna find out and if _Zayn_ finds out... Louis doesn't even wanna think about it. It'd be all leering expressions and smug remarks._ _

__“ _Oh, come on,_ ” Niall complains. “ _You and Harry are two of my closest friends and you've openly disliked each other since the first time you met and now you're suddenly exchanging notes in sealed envelopes to make sure the messenger doesn't read them and you're not even gonna tell me what that's all about?_ ”_ _

__“No, I'm not. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.”_ _

__“ _Not this one!_ ” Niall cries. “ _I want this mystery to be as solved as it possibly can be!_ ”_ _

__“Oh, it's already solved, you're just not gonna find out how or why.”_ _

__“ _But I want-_ ”_ _

__“Do you have Harry's number?”_ _

__“ _Now you want his_ number _as well?_ ” Louis may get a lot of shit from his friends for how much he shrieks when he's particularly emotional, be it in a negative or a positive way, but now Niall's the one shrieking and Louis is absolutely delighted._ _

__“Yes, that'd be great,” he says easily._ _

__“ _No,_ ” Niall says. “ _Not unless you tell me what you and Harry-_ ”_ _

__“Sorry, not worth it,” Louis cuts him off and hangs up._ _

__Then he's left with a problem, though, because he doesn't have Harry's number and thus he can't call him and Harry's gonna know that Louis got his note and Louis is _not_ gonna be as childish as to ignore a direct request. He may be childish in many aspects of life, but not when it comes to accidental sex and the aftermaths of said accidental sex. _ _

__So he does the only thing that makes sense – he gets his shoes and coat on and strolls over to the building next door._ _

__He stands knocking on Harry's door for several minutes, patience getting thinner and thinner. When it's been seven minutes according to the clock on his phone, he admits defeat. It's annoying because he went through the trouble of _going outside_ just to see Harry and then it turns out Harry's not even home. Rude. He turns on his heel and prepares to stomp down all three flights of stairs in an act of protest, but before he gets that far, the sounds of approaching footsteps reach his ears. _ _

__It's Harry. Of course it is. He's carrying a bag over his shoulder and the tired hunch in his shoulders and the matte look in his eyes suggest that he's only now getting home from work._ _

__He stops dead in his tracks when he spots Louis, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. It only lasts for a fraction of a second before he takes a key out of his pocket and unlocks the door. He doesn't say anything, but since he holds the door open without walking inside himself, Louis takes it as an invitation to come in. Harry follows right behind him and when the door smacks shut behind them both, it's suddenly very, very quiet. There are no lamps turned on and since darkness has long since fallen over the city and there are no windows in the entrance hall anyway, it leaves them in almost complete darkness._ _

__“You got my note?” Harry asks from where he's standing right behind Louis._ _

__Louis feels the awkwardness radiating from every square inch of air in the room. It's suffocating him and not in a good way. He turns around to face Harry just as Harry lets his bag drop to the floor and clears his throat before he responds. “Yeah, I did. Niall had put it on my dresser, he said, but it'd fallen down to the floor and-” He clears his throat. “Yeah, I got it. Read it.”_ _

__“And?”_ _

__“And what?”_ _

__“What do you mean 'what'?”_ _

__“What do you mean 'and'?”_ _

__Harry lets out a curt bark of laughter. Louis can feel it on his nose when the last traces of Harry's breath roll through the air. “I don't know. It's been a long day, sorry.”_ _

__And it's proof of how abnormal things are between them that Louis' only response to that is a stiff, “Yeah, tell me about it.”_ _

__It goes quiet again and it's just _very_ quiet, so quiet Louis can hear the air crackle in his ears. It's not even raining, no drops of water banging against the living room windows to provide a source of distraction. _ _

__And yet, despite the silence, Louis barely jumps when he feels Harry's hand on his waist. Not that he expected Harry to touch him, but they're standing close together in a dark room, it's a classic recipe for _something_ to happen, so he didn't expect Harry not to touch him either. It does, however, come as a bit of a surprise when he finds himself being pulled in close to Harry, so close that their chests make contact._ _

__“You said to call you when I got home,” Louis says and considering the stuttering increase in his heart rate, he's pretty proud of himself for managing to keep his voice even. “I didn't have your number, though and Niall didn't wanna give it to me unless I told him what was going on, so...”_ _

__“So you decided to come over instead,” Harry finishes for him. His fingers tighten their hold on Louis' waist and Louis closes his eyes and swallows thickly._ _

__“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” he says._ _

__“It doesn't anymore?” Harry asks._ _

__Louis tips his chin up and his nose brushes against Harry's, causing his breath to hitch in his throat. Hesitant hands find their way to Harry's chest and he places them there, flat against the surprisingly solid expanse, feels Harry's heartbeat through his coat and jumper._ _

__“Not sure,” he says. “Depends, I guess, on what's gonna happen next. And on what's gonna happen after what happens next.”_ _

__Harry doesn't say anything at once. “You know, I'm gonna be very honest with you,” he says with a small laughter that sounds like it comes out by force. “Most of the blood that'd usually go to my brain and help understand what you just said has escaped to my dick, so I have no idea what you meant by that.”_ _

__Louis looks down. He can't see anything; even now that his eyes have adjusted, it's still too dark, so he lets one of the hands on Harry's chest slide down, down, down, until there's a very noticeable bulge underneath his fingers. He sinks his teeth into his own bottom lip, biting back a moan that threatens to escape from somewhere low in his throat._ _

__“Okay, then,” he says and doesn't hesitate for a beat before he adds more pressure to the touch. Harry's breath trembles and maybe he tries to cover it up or maybe he just doesn't want Louis making a snide comment about it, but either way he stoops down and captures Louis' lips with his._ _

__It's a quick, raw mess._ _

__Their hands are everywhere, their tongues are frantic and before he knows it, Louis goes tumbling backwards to the floor and Harry lands on top of him. The air is knocked out of him and he groans at the dull pain that shoots up his back, but the sound drowns when Harry reclaims his lips. Harry may have been against getting off in Louis' entrance hall, but apparently he's fine with getting off in his own entrance hall, because it's not long before he starts grinding down against Louis and when Louis doesn't protest, he pulls down his joggers and underwear in one go. Louis shivers when his half-hard cock is met with the chilly air, but he doesn't protest when Harry sits up, drags his hands up from Louis' knees until he reaches his hip bones and then wraps his hand around Louis' cock and starts stroking._ _

__It's not Louis' proudest moment, but there's just something that's so hot about having sex on a semi-dirty floor while he's still mostly clothed that it doesn't take more than a couple of minutes before his orgasm washes over him. Harry doesn't waste any time before he gets his own cock out and gives himself a series of fast-paced tugs that has him shoot all over Louis' lower stomach within a matter of seconds._ _

__“You must really like touching my dick, if that's all it took for you to come after getting me off,” Louis says, pulling his pants and joggers back up._ _

__“Yeah, well, your dick's okay, unlike the rest of you.” Harry grins lazily as he stands up on his feet and tucks himself back into his pants._ _

__“Pretty rude to say to someone you just came all over the beautiful and _expensive_ coat of.”_ _

__“Sorry, old habit.” Harry hangs his jacket on a peg on the coat rack before he raises an eyebrow at Louis. “You planning on sleeping there tonight?”_ _

__Louis' legs are a little wobbly when he stands up and he has to lean against the wall on his right for support. Smiling cheekily, he asks, “Are you offering me a better place to sleep?”_ _

__Harry smiles back, though somewhat reserved. “No, I'm hinting that you have your own flat and your own bed a thirty second-walk from here.”_ _

__The smile wipes from Louis' face in an instant and he scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, aren't you just the perfect gentleman?” he says dryly. And he may be arsehole enough to point out Harry's shitty behaviour, but he's not arsehole enough to stick around and wait to receive an awkward answer about how Harry has to get up early for work or some shit, so he pushes past him, making sure his shoulder knocks into Harry's chest as he goes and stalks out the door with his nose in the air._ _

__Louis has done quite a few walks of shame in his life, but he's never been quite as shameful as when he now strolls along the pavement with cum on his coat and a grim expression on his face that he can't seem to rid himself of._ _

__Even though it's not even ten o'clock, he climbs into bed as soon as he's put his coat in the washer and made sure that Molster and St. Harold' food and water bowls are filled. He lies there on his back, stares up at the ceiling he can't see in the darkness and grumbles about his poor taste in sex-partners for over fifteen minutes before he's starting to dose off._ _

__He's just about to cross over into dreamland when he's abruptly dragged back to reality by his phone ringing. When he picks it up and squints at the screen to see who it is, he hisses out loud. He doesn't recognise the number, but he wasn't born yesterday._ _

__“You suck,” he says as soon as he's picked up. “You suck so badly.”_ _

__“ _I-_ ” Harry starts, but Louis cuts him off._ _

__“You don't get to kick me out after we do the nasty on your _floor_ and then wake me up by calling me when I'm trying to sleep. That's not how the world of the civilised works, Hairy.”_ _

__“ _Okay, alright, no, I did not kick you out,_ ” Harry says and he sounds unusually defensive. “ _I just reminded you that you have your own place next door to mine._ ”_ _

__“Which is just a polite way of saying, 'fuck off, I'm done with you now',” Louis snarls. He's possibly having a bit of an overreaction, but he's tired and Harry's irritating._ _

__It goes quiet on Harry's end of the line and Louis gives himself a triumphant pat on the back for having clearly been right. Then again, it's not really something he wanted to be right about._ _

__“ _I don't..._ ” Harry trails off and there's a sound as if he's scratching the back of his head or neck. When he speaks again, it's in a voice that sounds like he's weighing each word before he utters them. “ _I don't sleep well with other people in my bed, okay? I need my own space._ ”_ _

__Louis is still annoyed enough that he doesn't feel guilty when he says, “I've always wondered why in all the years I've known you, you've never had a serious relationship. Guess I've got my answer now.”_ _

__“ _As opposed to you, who have a long line of ex boyfriends to point back at,_ ” comes Harry's cold answer._ _

__“I- well, in my case it's at least not for a lack of trying.” Louis realises a little too late that that didn't prove his point quite in the way he intended for it to._ _

__“ _No, it certainly isn't, not if there's any truth to what Niall's told me._ ”_ _

__Louis doesn't like the sound of that. Not that Niall would ever tell anyone any of the things Louis has told him in (mostly drunken) confidentiality, no way. But there are plenty of things that have accidentally come up in casual conversations that didn't seem important enough to ask Niall not to tell anyone, but that Louis would still prefer stayed between the two of them. So what does Harry know?_ _

__Not about Liam, for sure. The only ones who knows about Liam are Niall and Zayn. But what about Brent? And Jase? And Thiago? They're all in the past, he no longer feels anything other than exasperated nostalgia when their names cross his mind, but that doesn't mean he doesn't recoil and gets an urge to dig himself a hole in the ground when he thinks back to how he behaved when they dumped him, one after one, at how... bratty and dramatic he was. It's embarrassing, is all._ _

__“Why did you write on the note for me call you?” he asks eventually. He doesn't wanna ask Harry what he's on about, it's too late in the evening, he wants to go to sleep with an unburdened heart and mind._ _

__“ _Because I wanted to talk to you._ ”_ _

__“About how you ignored me for a month after the last time we hooked up?”_ _

__“ _You say that like you went out of your way to try and get in touch with me, while in fact, you didn't even bother showing up for Zayn's birthday party._ ”_ _

__Louis rolls his eyes. “Because I'd been planning on visiting my family long before I knew that Zayn was celebrating his birthday that particular weekend. It didn't have anything to do with you, you self-absorbed twat.”_ _

__“ _Right, sure._ ” Harry sounds just about as convinced as Louis' mum did when he was five and insisted that it wasn't him who'd put his Legos in the toilet._ _

__“It wasn't!” he cries. Harry makes another sceptical sound and Louis growls. “Fine, okay, alright, I'll admit that it was a very lucky coincidence, because no, I wasn't particularly interested in seeing you, but it wasn't _intentional_.”_ _

__“ _Alright, okay, if you say so._ ” Harry still doesn't sound like he believes him, he sounds rather condescending, actually and if Louis hadn't been so tired, he'd have gone on a rant. There's a sound like Harry's clearing his throat. “ _So..._ ”_ _

__“So,” Louis echoes._ _

__“ _Where does this leave us?_ ”_ _

__Louis grimaces. “We're really gonna have that conversation now? I was almost asleep when you called, you know.”_ _

__“ _Almost, but not quite, meaning it doesn't count, so yes, we're gonna have that conversation now._ ” And then, without any further ado, “ _Is it gonna happen again?_ ”_ _

__Louis might have been inclined to play stupid if he'd been feeling particularly obnoxious, but for once, he doesn't, rather figures it's better to get it over with. “Do you want it to?” he asks._ _

__“ _Do_ you _want it to?_ ”_ _

__“If you think I'm gonna admit to wanting your dick, kindly go check yourself into a mental hospital, your kin is waiting for you.”_ _

__“ _I'm pretty sure you did just admit to wanting my dick,_ ” Harry says and Louis can practically hear a smug smile plaster itself across his face._ _

__“Whatever, Hairy,” he scoffs. “Do you want it to happen again or not?”_ _

__“ _Sure,_ ” Harry says and he sounds disturbingly casual about it. It must come with old age, Louis decides. “ _Let's agree not to tell Niall, though._ ”_ _

__“Let's agree not to tell anyone at all,” Louis corrects. He'd be nothing short of mortified if people found out that his precious genitals ever got anywhere near Harry's not so precious ones. Not to mention the sheer degradation in the thought of having Niall beam at him the way he always does when he thinks he's managed to make the world a better place._ _

__“ _Yeah._ ” Silent beat. “ _I guess I'll see you when I see you._ ”_ _

__“You gonna let me go back to sleep now, then? Thanks. Bye.”_ _

__*_ _

__Harry's ' _I'll see you when I see you_ ' hangs in the back of Louis' head throughout most of the days that follow. Not necessarily because he's, like, waiting for Harry to give him a call or anything, but because he'd very much like to know how much time Harry was planning on letting pass before their next... _interaction_. It's irritating, is the thing, to be given a promise of sorts, but have no idea when said promise will be fulfilled._ _

__Several days pass and he doesn't hear a word from Harry and when they get to Saturday and still no word, Louis is starting to wonder if maybe Harry's waiting for _him_ to call. But Louis isn't gonna call, because that'd be synonymous with telling Harry, straight out, that he'd very much like for the two of them to meet up and have sex. Preferably the kind that gets someone's butt involved. He's not that desperate, thank you very much._ _

__Maybe just a little desperate._ _

__It's Sunday evening when Harry finally shows a sign of life again. Louis has just gotten home from a bro-pal date with Philip at McDonald's and is spread out on the couch, massaging his stomach in a feeble attempt at getting rid of the stomach ache the third cheese burger gave him, when his phones beeps._ _

__It's a text that only contains two words._ _

__' _come over?_ '_ _

__It may not be the cleverest idea to scamper off to have sex when it's only been half an hour since he was stuffing his face with fatty, greasy food that has left him bloated and not at all unlikely to experience a dire need to relieve himself at a two second-notice, but... well, Louis has never been particularly clever._ _

__So he does scamper off and he does go running up three flights of stairs and he does spend five seconds knocking on Harry's door and he does end up blowing Harry on the couch before Harry returns the favour. Louis is a little disappointed in the lack of butt-related activities, but his stomach is still mildly upset with him, so he tells himself that it's probably for the best._ _

__“That was fun,” Harry says after they've both gotten dressed and with that, a pattern starts. Or, well, no, it's not a pattern, it's just a nice and neat arrangement that allows two consenting adults to get their needs fulfilled when they both feel like it, which happens to be a couple of times a week._ _

__One late night early in March, Louis is lying on his back next to Harry, their breaths coming and going in heavy heaves. His heater is cranked up, has been since he came home from work at five o'clock, rendering the room uncomfortably warm and their skin covered in a thin sheen on sweat._ _

__It reminds Louis of the trip he, Niall, Zayn and Liam took to Barcelona early in August two years ago. The air was so warm, so humid and he and Liam weren't able to get the air-con in their room started one evening. As they were too lazy to ask someone in the reception to help them fix the problem, they wound up lounging about on the bed, getting sweatier and sweatier until Louis decided that since they were already dirty and gross, they could might as well get dirtier by having a holiday shag._ _

__They went for four rounds, kept it up for three hours and ended up on the verge of reaching dehydration. Louis' arse felt like it'd taken a beating. But it was good, so good, because they took a shower together afterwards and Liam washed Louis' hair for him, fingers careful as they dragged through the dirty strands. To this very moment, Louis reckons that that day is as close as he ever got to feeling like there might have been more between him and Liam than a series of random fucks and weekly movie-nights._ _

__The memory brings a cold feeling to his chest, ironically enough and he sucks the inside of his lower lip in between his teeth._ _

__“Something wrong?” Harry asks next to him. He's got one arm folded underneath his head and he's looking at Louis with curious eyes._ _

__“No,” Louis says, shaking his head curtly. “Just... warm.”_ _

__Harry hums. “Might wanna take a shower.”_ _

__“Might?”_ _

__“Definitely?”_ _

__“Yeah.” Louis rolls his head to the side and looks at the clock on his nightstand. It's almost two in the morning and Louis groans. “I've got work in seven hours, so time for you to go home to your own bed, Hairy,” he says as he sits up and stretches his arms over his head._ _

__Harry gets to his feet without protesting and puts his clothes back on in silence, though admittedly with a grimace when the dry fabric gets in contact with his decidedly not dry skin. As he pulls his socks on, he turns his head to look at Louis. “Do you always work?” he asks._ _

__Louis blinks tiredly. “What?”_ _

__“Do you always work?” Harry repeats. When Louis sends him a quizzical look, he continues, “Every time we're here and it's late, you get me out by telling me you have work in the morning, so either you're a workaholic or you're too nice to tell me to fuck off.”_ _

__“Oh, trust me, Hairy, I'm not too nice to tell you to fuck off if I want to,” Louis says with a sneer. He neglects to inform Harry that usually, Louis is the person who offers to let his bed companions stay over and make them breakfast in the morning. “And I'm not a workaholic, but some of us have to work to keep a roof over our heads and food in our fridges, you know.”_ _

__Harry's expression is flat when he says, “I know that, Lou-Moo.”_ _

__“Then why did you ask if I always work?”_ _

__“Because it doesn't seem like you even take an occasional day off.”_ _

__“Yeah, well, the pay's shit and I can't seem to find a new job, so there you go.”_ _

__Harry's eyebrows wrinkle. “Why would you move into this flat, which is way too big for one person, when you're struggling to make the rent?”_ _

__Louis could always just snarl and tell Harry to get the fuck out, but that'd mean giving Harry exactly what he wants and Louis isn't stupid enough to fall for such cheap tricks. “Because, Hairy,” he says sweetly, “as I think you're well aware of, when I first moved in here, it was with Liam, not by myself, so the rent was split in half.”_ _

__“Ah, yes, the curious case of Liam,” Harry says with feigned realisation coating every word like one of Niall's particularly ill-smelling cups of tea. “When did he move out again?”_ _

__“June last year,” Louis says tightly. He keeps his eyes resolutely at one of the grey flowers on the patterned sheets as he speaks, doesn't really want to get a glimpse of what Harry's thinking by looking him in the eyes._ _

__“And _why_ did he move out?” Harry's curious about this, Louis can tell; he wants to know all the dirty details of what in reality is just one of Louis' many failed attempts at having a healthy, well functioning love life._ _

__“Because he wanted to live with his girlfriend.”_ _

__“Instead of with you? Can't imagine why.”_ _

__“Alright, time for you to piss off,” Louis snaps._ _

__He _knows_ that Harry's just being particularly rude because he's fishing for information and not because he actually means anything by what he's saying. But knowing that doesn't make it any more fun for Louis to hear the words that come out of Harry's mouth, because how many times hasn't he told himself the exact same thing? How many times hasn't he told himself that _of course_ Liam would rather be living with his dearly beloved girlfriend than with Louis, that it makes all the sense in the world?_ _

__But it's an admittance of the kind that works in the same way as whiplashes against his back. More whips won't make him hurt any less, the ache won't get any duller; it'll get worse and worse until the pain is tearing the meat off his bones and there's nothing left but a naked foundation of bones that can only offer a life that lets itself be contaminated by every gram of polluted dust that blows his way._ _

__And that's how Louis feels sometimes these days, like all the protective barriers that once existed between him and the negative forces that come his way are gone, leaving him open and vulnerable and easily accessible to anyone and anything that'd like to ruin him. Easily lured into mighty traps._ _

__Which is probably how and why Harry is here now, standing by the door, looking at him with a thoughtful expression on his face. He leaves eventually, with an audible sigh, when Louis makes no sign of wanting to say anything._ _

__Louis calls in sick at work the next day and sleeps until it's almost dinner-time. He has dinner in bed, watches twenty-nine episodes of _The Millionaire Matchmaker_ , goes to bed at eight thirty and ignores Niall's calls._ _

__*_ _

__To announce big news on April 1st is something that Louis considers an idiotic idea. It's just too obvious that everyone's gonna deem said big news as a prank, innit? So when he gets a text from Niall early in the afternoon on April 1st, he decides already before opening it that its contents are gonna be bullshit._ _

__' _Z PROPOSED!!!!!!!! ENGAGED!!!!!!!!!_ ' it says._ _

__Louis snorts and answers with a quick, ' _cool_ ' before he puts his phone back into his pocket and goes back to stacking up supplies on the taco-shelf. People eat too much taco, clearly, because it was just the other day that Philip was refilling the very same shelf. By the time he finishes, his phone has pinged six more times and Louis has ignored every single one of them. _ _

__Zayn managed to get one in on him last year by showing up at his doorstep right after midnight, wet and distraught-looking and babbling about how he'd gotten a girl at work pregnant. Louis, being the brilliant friend he is, ushered Zayn inside, made him a steaming cup of tea and sat him down on the couch to explain exactly what had happened. To this day, Zayn snickers like a madman whenever it's brought up and no one ever listens to Louis when he says that the only reason he fell for it was that he was asleep when Zayn showed up, so when the 'news' were delivered, he was practically drunk on exhaustion._ _

__As if he'd fall for such a cheap prank in broad daylight._ _

__His and Philip's shifts end at six and they pack up their things and leave the store together through the back entrance. They walk around the building, to the front and then turn left. The street's busy, people bump into them as they walk, some shouting drunken profanities after them. Getting drunk after dinner seems to be a socially accepted norm amongst forty year-old men these days. Louis wonders if that'll be him in twenty years; a grown man with nothing better to do with his afternoons than going out to drink more beer than there's blood in his body._ _

__But as it is, Louis is only in his mid twenties and is therefore far too young and viable to waste energy on worrying about how depressing his life could possibly be in a couple of decades. He has half a thought of asking Philip if he's up for going out, for dinner or just a drink, but before he's made up his mind, Philip speaks up._ _

__“Got any plans for the evening?” he asks as he hoists his bag further up on his shoulder._ _

__“Not that I know of,” Louis says, his thoughts steering momentarily towards the bottle of vanilla-flavoured lube he bought yesterday and to Harry's stupidly big and comfortable bed. But no, he's not gonna go there, refuses to be one of _those_ people. He's not gonna tell Philip that yes, he does have plans, just because there's the faintest chance that Harry will get in touch and invite him over. Nope. “You?”_ _

__“Got a hot date with _Hell's Kitchen_ and heated up lasagne,” Philip says. If Louis was afraid that he was being pathetic, that fear disappears the moment he sees the serene expression on Philip's face. If nothing else, Louis is at least eating _fresh_ food, not leftovers. He too will probably end up watching _Hell's Kitchen_ , though, because it's just so damn satisfying to watch weak people be reduced to tears by being yelled at by hot, older men who hold spatulas in their hands._ _

__He gets home and feeds Molster and St. Harold before he takes a quick shower and jumps into his comfortable, but thoroughly worn and long since out of fashion, black onesie. His dinner ends up being a frozen pizza that he digs out from the bottom of his freezer and he makes sure to enjoy it as he sits there on his couch and snickers over how much of a culinary heathen he is for watching _Hell's Kitchen_ while stuffing his face with food that would make a majority of the contestants cry in despair._ _

__Two contestants from the red team are in the middle of a saucy fight that includes wild gesturing with knives when the doorbell rings. Louis is _not_ willing to miss the outcome of the fight just because some idiot doesn't respect his TV-time, so instead of getting up and answering the door like civilised people apparently do, he yells, “It's open!”_ _

__He hears the door being opened, someone steps inside and then it closes again. Louis is too preoccupied with what's going on on the screen to care to turn his head to see who's come on an impromptu visit._ _

__It's Niall, as it turns out and he looks upset. Niall generally doesn't get upset and when he does, it's over silly things, like Zayn having forgotten to buy an extra bag of crisps at the shops. But now he actually looks proper upset, as if he's on the verge of going on a rant and Louis isn't sure how he feels about that._ _

__“Hey.” Louis smiles. “What's up?”_ _

__“Turn that off, will you?” Niall says, gesturing to the TV with a sharp nod. He doesn't say or do anything else._ _

__Normally, Louis would have protested, but Niall's being weird, which means something serious is up and even though he isn't a hundred percent sure that it's not all just part of an April Fool's-joke, he's not willing to risk it. Just in case. So he mutes the TV and leans back against the cushions, looks up at Niall, waiting._ _

__“Okay, listen,” Niall starts, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. “I know things haven't exactly been good for you since Liam left to move in with Erica; at best, you've been in a romantic dry spell and at worst, you've been in a constant state of heartbreak and in need of a good cry that if I know you right, you have yet to allow yourself to have.”_ _

__And now Louis is just confused. Did Niall come over, looking like a tiny thunder storm, to talk about _Liam_? “What are you-” he starts, but Niall shakes his head and carries on._ _

__“I get that you're still not a hundred percent over it even though it's been almost a year now,” he says, his voice having risen somewhat in volume. “And I'm not stupid, so I've noticed how reluctant you are to be anywhere near me and Zayn both at once since everything went to shit with you and Liam and I understand that, too, because I'm usually a pretty damn understanding person.”_ _

__Louis reckons Niall's understanding persona is about to fly out the window for a temporary leave of absence._ _

__“But what I don't understand,” he says sharply and takes a step closer to the couch so that his shadow is looming over Louis, “is that you can actually be so much of a bitter twat that when I tell you that my _boyfriend_ , who also happens to be one of your _best_ friends, has proposed to me, all you have to say is ' _cool_ '! What kind of a reaction is that, Louis? Is it like since you have no one special in your life right now, or ever, you can't even _try_ and muster up a little enthusiasm for those of us who do?”_ _

__Louis just gapes. He feels very tiny where he's sitting right now, shrinking under Niall's angry, yet mostly hurt, eyes. “I- it- was it for real?” he asks, voice small. When Niall just continues to stare, he bites his lip and looks down at his lap. It's full of pizza-crumbs. “I thought it was a joke.”_ _

__Several seconds tick by in silence._ _

__“A joke,” Niall repeats. His stance is unusually stiff, but some of the anger seems to drain out of him. “Why would it be a joke?”_ _

__“Because it's April Fool's! Who gets engaged on April Fool's, Niall? How could you think people would believe you when everyone's expecting a joke around every corner?” He huffs. “Especially after last year's prank, which was just so totally out of line.”_ _

__Niall doesn't smile, but he doesn't look quite as upset as earlier either when he plonks down next to Louis and crosses one leg over the other. Gathering his hands in his lap, he spreads the fingers on his left hand. Louis notices it then, the silver band on Niall's ring finger. It looks a lot like a fancier, less chunky version of the rings he's seen Harry wear on occasion._ _

__Louis meets Niall's eyes then, and smiles, warm and genuine and maybe just a little bit watery. He'll deny it for all it's worth if Niall ever decides to confront him about it. “You're engaged,” he says. “Like, actually _engaged_ , you have a ring that your absolute dolt of a boyfriend went out and bought for you.”_ _

__Niall's teeth dig deeply into his lower lip and he smiles so widely he appears a bit manic for a second and nods rapidly. He looks happy, happier than Louis himself can remember having ever felt and he can feel a beautiful sort of mockery peering down at him from up above. It's petty and selfish of him, he knows, to sit here and be happy for Niall while simultaneously feeling sorry for himself, but it's difficult not to, because Louis has always been the idiot who uses his friends' success and happiness as a standard to base an estimate of his own self-worth on._ _

__And right now, Louis feels like his self-worth could be bought with a sack of year-old potatoes._ _

__But despite the lack of self-worth, he crawls across the couch and puts his arms around Niall's neck and his head on Niall's shoulder. “Sorry I thought you were joking,” he says, nipping carefully at Niall's thick jumper. It tastes kinda nice, for a jumper. “I'm happy for you. Really happy, actually.”_ _

__Niall leans his cheek on Louis' head and sighs deeply. Louis wants to laugh every time Niall does that, because he somehow manages to sound just like the tiny, always furious poodle Louis' grandparents used to have when he was a kid._ _

__“Sorry I dragged Liam into my rant,” Niall says, his breath tickling Louis' ear._ _

__“Yeah,” is all Louis has to say to that because, well, it was kind of a dick move._ _

__“Was I wrong, though? About what I said?”_ _

__Louis puffs out a snort. “I'm not feeling a heart to heart right now, Niall.”_ _

__“Okay. Let me know when you do.”_ _

__Louis doesn't think he'll ever feel like having a heart to heart about Liam. They had one, he and Niall, a week after it all went down and that one had been enough, because feelings are exhausting and Louis doesn't want them, much less acknowledge them out loud in the presence of other people._ _

__“Sure,” he says nevertheless, if only to avoid having Niall morph into a bundle of worry._ _

__Niall sounds like he's already half-morphed when he asks, “So are you gonna tell me who you've been screwing lately?”_ _

__Louis freezes. It's with no small amount of anxiety boiling in the pit of his stomach that he asks, “How do you know I've been screwing anyone?” He's fully prepared to say that he's just been spending an awful lot of time getting to know his own body if Niall's answer includes something about a healthy sex-glow._ _

__“It's either that or you've been giving yourself love bites, which I doubt is the case since the love bites are always on your neck where it'd be a little difficult for you to reach with your own mouth,” Niall says. He lifts his head and pulls back, forcing Louis sit up straight and glues a pair of scrutinising eyes to the right side of Louis' neck._ _

__Louis feels vaguely sick because he _knows_ that that's the spot where Harry usually leaves his marks, which means that Niall's not just messing around; he _knows_. “It's nothing,” he says, brushes it off with a smile as he pulls the zipper of his onesie further up._ _

__“It's not nothing,” Niall insists. “You're fucking someone, I know you are.”_ _

__“I don't-”_ _

__“And you don't wanna tell me who it is, which can only mean one thing.” Niall smirks. Louis wants to throw up. Preferably all over Niall's lap so that he'll be offended and go home. “It's someone I know.”_ _

__Louis manages to keep a straight face, but it's a close call. He can feel his heartbeat claw at the inside of his chest, threatening to dig its nails right through his skin and expose his barely upheld mask as a blatant lie. “You can dig and pry all you want, Niall, but I'm not gonna tell you anything,” he says with what he hopes is a clever smile on his lips._ _

__Of the many things Louis loves about Niall, what he loves the most right now is that he's not a persistent specimen. His shoulders slump in defeat and he gives Louis a pitiful face. “Well, at least I know you're not just sitting here on your arse day in and day out, growing old with your cats,” he says._ _

__“Must be a big relief,” Louis says dryly._ _

__“As of matter in fact, it is.”_ _

__“Thanks. Wanna watch _Hell's Kitchen_ with me before you go home to your fiancé?”_ _

__Niall visibly brightens up at the word ' _fiancé_ ' and looks a bit like he's close to swooning. Louis wants to throw up again._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was part one! I know the cut-off is a little awkward, a result of this story originally being intended to be posted in one part, but I hope you'll forgive me. The next part will be posted on Friday, July 31st, so... until then, maybe leave a comment? Or come talk to me on [tumblr](http://lilopranks.tumblr.com)?


	2. Part 2

Louis bans love bites. Harry's irritated.

“What's wrong with love bites?” he asks. He's holding himself up over Louis with his lower arms framing Louis' head, their naked bodies sticking together.

“There's nothing wrong with the love bites in themselves, but people notice them and start asking questions,” Louis says. He purses his lips and adds, “ _Niall_ notices them and starts asking questions.”

“What?” Harry sits up between Louis' spread legs. “Does he know?”

Propping himself up on his elbows, Louis rolls his eyes. “Of course he doesn't, but he knows I've been fooling around with _someone_ and we all know Niall's not necessarily the sharpest tool in the shed, but-”

“But he's gonna, or he already has, told Zayn and between the two of them, it won't take too long before they manage to work it out if we keep leaving bruises all over each other,” Harry finishes and Louis nods.

“So if you don't mind, I'd rather we stopped with the _True Blood_ reenactments, at least for now.”

Harry's lips quirk up in a wry smile. “What about where no one's gonna see them?” he asks, trailing three feather light fingers along the small expanse of the back of Louis' thigh. He stops when his fingers hits the mattress. Louis doesn't say anything as he lets his legs fall wider open. He bites his lip, his chest rising and falling with a string of almost even breaths. Harry's smile widens. “Flip over.”

Louis' dick twitches with anticipation of what's to come (hah hah. Come.) as he turns over to lie on his stomach. For the longest time, absolutely nothing happens save for Harry tracing mindless patterns on Louis' back with his fingers. Frowning suspiciously, Louis tries to turn his head around to see what's going on.

“What are you doing back there?” he asks.

Harry's answer to that is to give Louis' arse a smack. Louis absolutely does not squeak. Or maybe he does. Whatever.

“I never agreed to any spanking,” he says, his voice carrying a slight pitch. He can feel Harry shift, the mattress moving with him and then there's hot air ghosting over his arse and Harry places a kiss to the bottom of his spine and everything suddenly feels far too... something. Too much, perhaps. “Whatever you're planning on doing, please get on with it,” he therefore snaps.

“You need to work on that patience of yours,” Harry says. He doesn't sound too terribly upset, though, so Louis gives him the finger.

“And you need to work on getting down to business a little quicker, because this just won't-” The admonishment is cut short by another squeak, this time a much louder one and his whole body spasms on its own accord, because Louis did _not_ agree to give Harry's tongue free admission to his arse. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” he gasps. He tries to sound angry and proper put off, he really does, but his body betrays him by trying to push up towards Harry's face.

“What, you're not into it?” It doesn't sound like he believes that for a second, but he stops nonetheless and sits up straight, planting his hands flat on Louis' thighs.

“I didn't _say_ that,” Louis hisses while attempting to kick Harry. “I suggest you finish what you started unless you want me to sit on your face.”

Harry stops mid-lick. “Would you?” He sounds intrigued.

Louis groans into the pillow. “Not _now_ , Hairy.”

Harry laughs low in his throat. “Calm your tits.”

“I don't have tits, just... pudgy thighs,” Louis grumbles.

It's quite a useless discussion, so Louis isn't about to object when it's cut short by Harry going back to eating him out. And it's been far too long since Louis had anyone do that to him, so it's not his fault that it takes him approximately thirty seconds to be standing there with his arse in the air, propped up on his underarms, thighs shaking with the effort of keeping it together and his face pressed so far into the pillows he can barely breathe. The sounds he releases, mostly against his own will, come out choked and maybe the faintest bit whiny, but he _can't bloody help it_. Harry doesn't seem to mind, anyway, with the way he keeps humming happily in between laps. 

His hands come up to spread Louis' cheeks further apart, blunt fingernails digging into the soft skin there and Louis cries out, loud and hoarse, as his arms give in underneath him. He's shaking all over and his forehead's soaked through with sweat, warm drops running down his nose. Fisting the sheets in his hands, he turns his head to the side and gulps in several mouthfuls of fresh air.

“You- you should fuck me,” he breathes, swiftly followed by a broken moan. “Like, right now.”

Harry pulls back, much to Louis' chagrin. “Some other time,” he says.

“Why not now? I want you to,” Louis says, wiggling his hips for emphasis.

“Too much work,” Harry says.

Too much work. Right. Maybe it is if you're ancient and afraid of having your hip break. “Fine, whatever,” he concedes with a heavy sigh. “At least get back to it, then.”

“And if I don't, you'll sit on my face?”

Louis suppresses a smile. “You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“Could be. Wanna find out?”

“No, it's too much work.”

Harry lets out a laugh that it sounds like he's doing his best to force back. Rude. Louis is funny and no one should be ashamed to acknowledge that. “Figured as much,” Harry says before he without any further ado stoops back down, making Louis grunt in surprise.

One of Harry's fingers slides inside him with minimal resistance and Louis' insides flare up like a campfire trapped in a hurricane. It's just an embarrassingly obvious evidence of just how _right_ Harry's hands and mouth are on him, really, because otherwise he wouldn't be this gone, this quickly. 

Louis comes with a drawn-out, staccato moan that makes his throat ache, Harry's tongue buried as far inside him as he reckons a tongue is physically capable of reaching. Harry pulls back when Louis is starting to tremble with over-sensitivity, presses a kiss to the bottom of his spine and mumbles something that sounds like, “You alright?”

Louis doesn't answer immediately. He stays on all fours until his breathing is back to normal and he's stopped shaking before he turns around with sluggish motions. Harry's laid down on his back, his cock lying hard and a little red on his hip. Biting his lip, Louis gives it a slow stroke, thumbs carefully at the tip where a few drops of pre cum have gathered. Harry doesn't say a word, but his breathing's laboured and his knuckles have turned white where they're clutching the sheets.

Bending down, Louis pokes out his tongue, gives Harry's cock a small kitten lick. Harry shifts his hips, groaning low in his throat and Louis smiles, mostly to himself, before he curls down and gets to work.

“Not gonna last at all,” Harry says hoarsely, fingers threading through Louis' hair. He's shaking, as if he's doing his best to not fuck into Louis' mouth.

Louis would have made a comment about how he thought old age was supposed to come with better stamina, but he's got a nice rhythm going, both with his hand and with his mouth and figures the snark can wait until later. Harry stays true to his word, though. No more than a minute passes before he gives Louis' hair a warning tug and Louis barely has time to pull off before Harry's coming in thick spurts, most of it ending up on his own chest and stomach.

Slumping down to lie on his front, Louis sighs contently. He's tired and warm and sated and Harry smells nice, like cinnamon and coffee and shampoo. Louis nuzzles his nose against his shoulder, yawns languidly and has half a thought that he should probably go lock the front door before he falls asleep. The idea of getting up seems like a silly one, though, so he doesn't move, thinks that if anyone wants to break in and steal everything he owns at some point during the night, then so be it.

But then Harry pushes him off and rises to his feet and Louis' little bubble of contentment bursts. He watches in silence as Harry gets dressed, a million different words sitting at the tip of his tongue, waiting to be uttered. _You don't have to leave_ and _The bed's big enough for two, you know_ and _I'm not that terrible a bed partner, I don't even hog the covers._ None of them actually make it out until Harry's fully dressed and has almost made it to the door, ready to be on his way without as much as a goodbye.

“Hey,” he says as he sits up, reaching for the duvet to covers himself up. Harry stops and turns around, raises an eyebrow that makes Louis feel oddly small where he's sitting, naked and ruffled and probably rosy-cheeked. “I make a pretty decent fry-up if you want to stay over and have breakfast in the morning.”

Harry blinks and his lips curl up in a smile and for a second, it looks like he might actually say yes. At least until he shakes his head and says, “I think I'll pass.” Barely offering Louis a second glance, he opens the door and walks out.

Louis doesn't pout. _He doesn't_. 

As soon as he hears the front door slam shut, he sinks back against the pillows and curls in on himself, glaring at nothing specific. “Just trying to be nice,” he mutters for no one to hear. 

A small meow sounds from somewhere on the floor and Louis sits up. Molster's standing next to the bed, her eyes expectant when they meet his and for once, he doesn't have the will to tell her to go sleep in the living room where she belongs. Patting the mattress, he says, “Come on, then,” and Molster immediately jumps up and finds herself a spot next to Louis' pillow. She purrs loudly when he scratches behind her ear, even gives his thumb a lick that he chooses to believe is a sign of affection.

At least his cats seem to like him, so that's something.

*

Louis is not freaking out. He's not freaking out. _He's not freaking out_. 

He's totally freaking out. Every single cell in his body is freaking the fuck out.

The last time he found himself at a total loss for words, frozen like a fish stick fresh from the freezer, was when he was fifteen and Lionel Fraser planted a loud, wet kiss on his lips in front of half their football team and then proceeded to laugh at the completely dumbstruck look on Louis' face. 

Almost ten years have passed since then, but when he now, at ten in the morning late in April, is standing next to his kitchen table, coffee cup in one hand, phone in the other, that's the first memory that comes to mind. Fuck, it's the _only_ memory that comes to mind. 

Sinking down on one of the chairs, Louis puts the coffee cup down and draws a deep breath. Up until five minutes ago, he hadn't as much as heard Liam's voice since July last summer. But then his phone rang and the number that Louis once knew by heart flashed across the screen and he picked up with a chipper, “Louis speaking,” because he didn't know any better. 

And then Liam spoke on the other end and he said something about it having been way too long since they last saw each other and that he knew things were weird between them, but that he'd like to meet up for dinner if Louis had a couple of hours to spare in the evening. Louis is working the evening shift and therefore doesn't have a couple of hours to spare, but his brain seemed to stop functioning at the sound of Liam's voice, so he babbled something along the lines of, “Yes, of course, looking forward to it!”

So now he's going out for dinner with Liam and he's just... he's scared. He hasn't seen Liam since Niall's new year's party and Liam didn't even take notice of Louis' presence then, only had eyes for his girlfriend. Now they're gonna be sitting face to face, only with two plates of food and probably a flower separating them and Louis can't escape the feeling that by the time he returns home, he'll be just about ready for a repeat of the weeks following Liam's decision to move out of their flat last summer.

Louis doesn't tell Niall, figuring that if it ends with a worst case scenario, Niall will figure it out soon enough. He calls Philip and asks if he could cover Louis' shift in exchange for a bottle of ridiculously expensive whisky that's been standing in his cupboard for almost two years and that he has no intentions of drinking. Philip asks why and Louis is almost tempted to tell him, but in the end, he doesn't, just says he has some things he needs to take care of before the weekend.

“Am I crazy?” he asks Molster when he's sitting on the couch that afternoon. There's a bowl of cheese flavoured tortilla chips in his lap and a horridly boring documentary about different bear kinds and their mating cycles on TV. Molster is busy licking her butt and doesn't answer. 

Louis sighs. “What am I supposed to do, then?” he continues, nibbling on the corner of a tortilla chip. “Pretend that he doesn't exist for the rest of my life? I can't do that. I don't think. I mean, we were friends before we started fucking and it wasn't like I just... fell for him the moment I laid eyes on him, so surely there's a way for us to be friends, don't you think?”

Molster looks up for a moment before she goes back to licking her butt.

Louis sighs. “Yeah, you go, girl. Keep maintaining your hygiene, it makes it easier to attract a mate. But, just so we're clear, if you sneak out and come home knocked up after a racy night on the streets, I'm gonna have to give away all your babies as soon as they're born.”

It's a nice day, sunny and relatively warm and if Louis' chest hadn't been filled with anxiety, he'd probably have gone for a walk. Or at least sat outside on his tiny balcony to soak up some vitamin D. But everything considered, it feels safer to stay on the couch with the curtains drawn, so that's what he does until the sun's starting to set and he has to get out of his joggers and _Johnny's Car Sale_ t-shirt.

He spends an embarrassing amount of time picking out what to wear. Not that he feels any pressure, because there literally isn't one single physical state that Liam hasn't already seen him in, but he doesn't wanna show up and look like he's spent the last ten months in misery either.

When he exits his building a little past eight o'clock and starts walking in direction of the restaurant, he's managed to work himself up to a respectable state of anxiety. What does Liam want? Why did he suddenly decide now, after months of nothing, that it'd be a good time to ask Louis to have dinner with him? Did he break up with what's-her-name and would therefore like to move back in? The possibility makes Louis' stomach do a... not a jump, really, more like a sickening tumble.

The restaurant he's headed to is located in the middle of on a busy street that's mostly filled with food establishments in varying degrees of fanciness. Being a Friday night, there are plenty of people walking past and around him, so it should probably be harder than it is for his eyes to search out Liam on a twenty-metre distance. He sees Liam so clearly, though, his straight, firm stance easily recognisable. When he gets a bit closer, he can conclude, with a pinch of sadness, that Liam looks fucking great; broad and scruffy and just overall handsome. He's wearing plain black jeans matched with a grey button-up that sits tight enough over his chest to show off his muscles. The world is cruel and Louis' world is particularly cruel.

With only a few metres left to walk, Louis plasters on a smile that he can only hope looks more forthcoming than it feels. Liam looks up from his phone and his face immediately lights up in a smile that makes Louis chest feel like it's about to cave in. He got rid of all the photos he had of Liam the day Liam moved out and the ones that showed him smiling were the first ones to go. It's therefore not all that strange, really, that seeing Liam's smile directed at him now makes him feel nostalgic and despondent both at once. 

But he doesn't break down in tears right there on the pavement, he doesn't even get a lump in his throat or an urge to spin on his heel and run back home, so he figures that's a good sign.

“Hi,” he says, smiling the best he can.

“Wasn't sure if you'd show up,” is Liam's response, to which Louis frowns. “Not that you're not reliable or anything,” Liam adds quickly. The ' _I just wasn't sure if you'd want to see me_ ' goes unsaid.

“Yes, well, here I am,” Louis says, attempting a laugh that comes out entirely too awkward.

Liam seems to be much more at ease than Louis when he responds. “You look good. A little smaller, though.”

“Smaller than what? Your gorilla-sized body?” The words are out before he can even think them through and he winces internally.

But Liam just laughs, a real laugh that doesn't in any way resemble Louis'. “I'll take that as a compliment,” he says. “We should get inside before they give our table to someone else.”

“You reserved a table?” Louis asks as he follows Liam through the open entrance doors of the restaurant.

“Wasn't gonna risk everything being full, was I?”

Louis has been to the restaurant twice in the past. The first time was when Zayn and Niall were in the early stages of their relationship and the whole evening was pretty much Louis having too much wine to try and make being the third wheel of an obnoxious couple a bearable experience. The second time was two and a half years ago when he was on a date with a bloke he can't even remember the name of anymore. The only reason Louis went out with him in the first place was that he'd found out a few days prior that Liam had started going out with a girl. That girl later became the reason Louis was left alone in a too big flat with a broken heart to keep him up at night, so needless to say his memories connected to the restaurant aren't of the joyous kind.

They're seated by a waitress whose head barely reaches Louis' chin, but whose smile is so bright it'd surely blind a weaker specimen. Or at least a heterosexual one. It's quiet for a bit after they give her their drink orders and she leaves them with two menus. There's pasta carbonara there and if it hadn't been for Louis' rule of never eating pasta in public due to the strong possibility of spilling all over yourself like a toddler, he so would have ordered that. In the end, he orders a cheeseburger with fries while Liam orders a steak on the side of Caesar's salad. 

It's funny, Louis thinks, how something as trivial as a choice of food can be a cruel reminder of how different directions their lives seem to have headed in since they last talked. The Liam Louis knew would never have ordered a steak and salad as long as pizza was an alternative. He also would have never worn a button-down or jeans this tight. 

It's not even been a year, but Liam has evolved, he's grown up, he seems to have made something of himself. Louis hasn't.

“You look nice,” he says with a smile, ignoring the heaviness that's settled in his chest. “You've got a new style and all.”

Liam returns the smile sheepishly. “It's kinda just become a habit. I have to wear shirts for work every day and Erica thinks I look nice in them, so... figured why not, you know?”

“You've got a job that requires shirts now?” Louis leans back in his chair, glass in hand. “Do tell.”

“Not much to tell. Still at the same firm, but they promoted me.”

The same firm. The architect firm with the god awful boss that Liam complained about at least three times a week while Louis petted his hair and told him to get it all out. “And that promotion required you to wear shirts? Sounds like a hassle.”

“Terribly so, not even sure if it's worth it,” Liam says seriously.

Louis grins, but it fades in a matter of seconds. He takes a sip of his Coke, grimacing slightly at the feeling of the sugar making contact with his teeth, before he puts the glass on the table. “It sounds like you're good, then,” he says. “Good job, good... girlfriend, good everything.”

Liam doesn't answer at once. As Louis watches, a drag of something solemn and unsure crawls onto Liam's face and stays there, eventually drilling into his eyes as well. When he opens his mouth, Louis half expects an, ' _I have cancer_ ' or ' _I hired an assassin, he's coming after you tomorrow night._ ' 

What he actually gets is an, “I'm getting married in August.” Louis stares. Liam laughs uneasily. “That's why I wanted to have dinner, I wanted to tell you in person. I was gonna wait until we'd eaten, but then you said 'girlfriend' and I figured-”

“Yeah.” Louis is still staring, but his mouth somehow managed to act on its own, effectively cutting Liam off. He just... he doesn't know what to do or even what to think. Fair enough that he knew from the moment Liam walked out of their flat last June that there was no way in hell anything more would ever become of their friendship slash occasional-fuck-buddy agreement, but... Now Liam's sitting right across from him in a crowded restaurant, looking like a bloody wet dream especially designed to break hearts and he's telling Louis that he's getting married in four months. 

An August wedding. 

August always was Liam's favourite month.

Louis just feels a little empty, not to mention even more of a failure than he did three minutes ago. Liam's getting married and he has a proper grown-up type job while Louis has no idea where he's going with his life and hasn't had a relationship that lasted longer than a month since before the night he and Liam wound up in bed together the first time.

“Wow,” he manages eventually, along with a smile that feels entirely too forced. “Seems to be going around. Zayn and-”

“Yeah, I know. Niall called and told me.”

“Okay.” Louis coughs, makes a futile attempt at clearing his head. “That's... that's why you wanted to meet up?” he asks. “Because you wanted to tell me face to face that you're getting married?”

“Figured it was probably for the best.” Pause. “I would have invited you to the wedding, but it didn't seem like the best idea.”

Louis blanches. “Why not?” Not that he has any desire whatsoever to sit in a church and watch Liam declare his eternal love for a gorgeous girl who'll without a doubt look even more gorgeous in a wedding gown, but still.

Liam doesn't seem to be too bothered. “Because of our past,” he says and takes a sip of his white wine. White wine. This Liam is much too sophisticated to fit into Louis' life. 

Louis' heart hurts. Looking down at his lap for a moment, he swallows. “We used to fuck and therefore I can't come to your wedding?”

“We used to fuck while I was seeing Erica and that's why you can't come to my wedding,” Liam says and there's maybe a hint of something impatient in his voice. “I didn't think you'd want to come, anyway, considering how we left things last summer.”

“You were the one who left, Liam, not me.” He pointedly ignores the not so subtle accusation of him being partly responsible for Liam cheating on his girlfriend. Fiancé. Whatever.

Liam's hands drag over his face, ever so slowly. Placing his lower arms on the table, he fixes his eyes on Louis'. “Yeah, I left,” he says and his tone makes it clear that he has more to say. “We had a great time living together, but yes, I left, because it was getting more and more uncomfortable by the day to try and ignore how you wanted more from me than I could or wanted to give you. So I left to live with Erica, figured it was better that way. You can't hold that against me, Lou.”

It takes a couple of moments for the words to sink in. Louis is staring again, but instead of empty, he feels hot and cold at the same time. Hot with brewing anger, cold with stony humiliation. “You knew?” he asks, doesn't even bother to try and deny anything. “You knew that I- that I wanted-”

“I think everyone knew,” Liam says with another one of those awkward little laughs. “It went on for, what, two years? It wasn't exactly-”

“You knew all along?” Louis interrupts incredulously. He can feel himself slowly unravel, his lower lip quivering slightly, because this... this changes _everything_. He draws a deep breath before he continues. “You knew all the time that I was- that I wanted more, you _knew_ that every time I asked you to go out with me or have dinner with me at home or stay for a bit after we fucked or whatever, it was because I wanted- _you knew_ and you just pretended that you had no idea and kept on fucking me on the side whenever your girlfriend wasn't available?”

The look on Liam's face greatly resembles the one of a person who's just been hit over the head with a sledge hammer. But he doesn't say a word, he just looks at Louis with deep brown eyes that are glinting from the lamp hovering over the table, as if he's expecting a simple look to be enough. 

It's not enough, not by a long shot and Louis needs to get the fuck out of here. Standing up on shaky legs, he pulls out a couple of notes from his wallet and puts them down on the table. “Bye, Liam,” he says and fuck, he _hates_ how thick his voice has gotten. Not waiting for a response, he grabs his jacket from the chair and stalks away with his eyes downcast.

The street is even more crowded than earlier and Louis bumps into several people as he hastes down the street. 

For almost three years, he's lived under the impression that Liam was an oblivious dolt. He's defended Liam to Niall on more than one occasion, saying that it wasn't Liam's fault that Louis was left the way he was, because Liam was clueless; because Liam thought Louis was fine with them being nothing more than friends with benefits; because Liam thought Louis asked if they could have dinner together as _friends_ , if they could go to the movies together as _friends_ , if they could spend two whole days after their uni graduation in bed, shagging like bloody rabbits, _as friends_.

Louis has thought for so long that it was his own fault that nothing more ever came of his relationship with Liam, that he had no one but himself to blame since he could never muster up the courage to just tell Liam how he felt like any civilised adult. But Liam knew all along, the knowledge even being the main reason he moved out and he never said a word until now and Louis... Louis is furious and humiliated and his heart feels like it's taken a severe beating that ended with a violent stab right in the middle. He doesn't know how long he'll be able to hold back the emotions that are bubbling hotly in his throat or how long his legs will carry him before they give in, leaving him in a sad puddle on the ground, so he picks up his pace when he's nearing home.

He's supposedly a grown man, but right now, he feels like a hormonally charged teenager about to have an anxiety attack over what he, objectively spoken, knows he should be able to rise above.

His phone starts vibrating in his pocket when he's a stone throw away from home. Stopping in his tracks, he picks it up and isn't too surprised to see what he recognises as Liam's number on the screen. He declines the call and sets the phone to mute before putting it back in his pocket.

Taking a swift look around to make sure there are no one else around, Louis closes his eyes and inhales deeply. There's a clog somewhere in his throat that makes the exhale come out shaky and he swallows in an attempt to get rid of it. It doesn't help in the slightest. The street's completely deserted and though he can hear the rumbles of city life in the far distance, he feels terribly alone and his brain doesn't even have the capacity to decide if he thinks that's a good thing or not. He just wants to lie down and sleep.

The door to the building he's stopped next to opens and a middle-aged man exits. He nods hastily at Louis in passing, but Louis is too preoccupied with realising that it's Harry's building that's next to him to return the greeting. Not that he didn't notice earlier, per say; he just didn't actually _think_ about it as much as he made a sub-conscious mental note of it.

He can see Harry's living room window from where he's standing. The curtains are drawn, but there are lights on and the constantly flickering shadows suggest that the TV's on. Louis wraps his arms around his waist and sucks in his lower lip between his teeth. As much sex as he and Harry have had the last few months, he's pretty sure they don't qualify as friends, but still. He doesn't much fancy the thought of going home and be left with nothing to keep him company but his own thoughts. 

And Harry won't care enough about what's going on to ask any questions either, so he's pretty much the perfect companion. The part of Louis that's still functioning normally shudders. He just referred to Harry as ' _perfect_ ' in his head. He recognises that it's not entirely impossible that him having dinner with Liam was the nudge the world needed to go flying off into a black hole and let itself be swallowed by abiding hopelessness.

As Louis makes his way up the stairs to the third floor, the likelihood of Harry slamming the door in his face hangs in the back of his head. Not that he would _care_ if that happened, because, really, it's Harry and Harry can go screw a cactus for all Louis cares. But rejection is rejection, regardless of who it comes from and Louis isn't sure if he obtains the emotional capacity to handle a rejection right now. So when he's standing in front of the door to flat number five, it's not impossible that his heart's beating a little faster than usual. Not like it was in the restaurant earlier, painful against his ribcage and threatening to force him to burst out in tears, but in a way that's making his cheeks heat up until he knows that they're more than just a little red.

Doing his best to school his face into one of indifference, he reaches out a hand and rings the doorbell twice. He stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and waits. It's quiet for a few seconds before the sounds of approaching footsteps on the other side travel through the door, then the lock clicks and the door is pushed open.

Harry's only wearing a pair of joggers and he looks ruffled, like he's just woken up. “Hi.”

Louis smiles to the best of his abilities. “Can I come in?”

Harry grimaces and Louis' stomach drops a couple of centimetres. Grimaces are never a good sign. “I just got home from a workout and it's been a long day at work, so I'm not really in the mood.”

“Oh.” Louis looks down at his feet for a moment and then attempts another smile. “I didn't mean- I just wanted to hang out for a bit.”

“Hang out?” He says it like the concept is completely foreign to him. Louis doesn't answer, just shrugs and keeps smiling and eventually Harry shakes his head. “I was gonna head off to bed, so maybe some other time.”

The anticipated rejection hits harder than Louis thought it would, sits like a gruelling weight in his chest. Clearing his throat, he asks, “You can't hold it off for just, like, an hour?”

“Like I said, I've had a long day, so unless you have an actual reason for being here, I'm gonna tell you to go home and then close the door, alright?”

“I- no, it's not alright,” Louis says with a huff as he crosses his arms tightly over his chest. Irritation is generally a safer emotion to display than sadness. “You may have had a long day, but I've had a really shitty day that in the last hour has turned into the shittiest day of the year as far as I'm concerned and now I want some company. And honestly, after all the times you've kicked me out after I made you come, I think the least you could do now is to sit next to me for a little while and watch some TV.”

Harry looks flabbergasted, but he steps aside and gestures for Louis to come in. He stands and waits while Louis takes off his shoes and hangs his jacket on the coat rack before he leads into the living room and makes a somewhat awkward gesture for Louis to sit down on the couch and then does the same himself. The TV's on, but it's set to mute.

“Do you mind if I take off my trousers?” Louis asks after several seconds. Harry raises his eyebrows and Louis adds, “They're too tight.”

“You came over here, knowing that you were gonna ask to come in and you didn't think to put on something more comfortable?”

Louis takes that as a yes. As he unbuttons his jeans and starts peeling them off, he says, “I wasn't home before I came here, I was out.”

“Out,” Harry repeats. He reaches for a carelessly folded blanket at the end of the couch and hands it to Louis.

“Yes, out,” Louis says while spreading the blanket over his lap. It's soft and warm, much unlike Harry, who looks exceptionally bored and kinda tired. A sting of guilt prods at Louis' chest, but he ignores it. Harry doesn't even have work on the weekends, so he can sleep in for as long as he'd like in the morning.

Pulling a part of the blanket over his own lap, Harry asks, “Out doing what?”

“Having dinner.”

“Alone? That's a little tragic, even for you.”

“No, not alone.”

It's silent for a bit. “You were on a date?”

Louis laughs, but it comes out as an almost hysterical noise that doesn't sound one bit like him. “No, definitely not a date.” 

There's a hint of curiosity in Harry's eyes when he looks at Louis. 

Fixing his gaze on his lap, Louis starts picking on a loose thread in the blanket. Harry wasn't supposed to ask questions, he was supposed to just sit there and keep quiet. And he hasn't asked, not directly, but the question's definitely there, dangling in front of Louis' face like like a big, heavy pendulum.

“I was with Liam,” he says, eyes still downcast. “He called and asked me to have dinner with him and I agreed.”

“Ah. Liam. The mysterious Liam-situation.”

“It's not mysterious, it just... is what it is.”

In the crook of his eye, Louis sees Harry sit up straight. “But you had dinner with him and since you're here now, it probably didn't end well,” he says.

“Yeah,” Louis says before he looks up, only to find Harry still eyeing him curiously. 

Now that he's not talking, there's something resembles genuine kindness on Harry's face. Louis knows that it'll be gone within a minute or two, but it's there right now and he just feels drained and not at all up for telling Harry to find another source of entertainment. If Harry wants to bask in the comfortably heated pond of amusement that he sees Louis' misery as, then so be it. Surprisingly enough, Louis _wants_ to talk and Harry's the only person around to listen. The potential risk of being mocked for all eternity is a painfully obvious presence, but he figures he can always retaliate with petty comments about how tiny Harry's dick is and how he sounds like a goat being put through a blender when he comes.

Neither is true, but that'll be his word against Harry's.

Readjusting his position so that his head's resting on the couch's back, Louis asks, “Did Niall ever tell you what happened?”

“Between you and Liam?” Louis nods and Harry shakes his head. “I've tried to ask, like a million times, but he just keeps telling me to lay off it and that it's none of my business.”

“Good for him.” Creasing his forehead pensively for a moment, Louis licks along the seam of his lips and then says, in one breath, “We fucked a lot and it didn't end well.”

It's quiet for a second. “Didn't end well how?” Harry asks. “You got pregnant?”

Louis shrugs his shoulders, ignores the joke. “We fell in love.” 

“And that's a bad thing?”

“It was, yeah, because while I fell in love with him, he fell in love with someone else.” Louis blinks as soon as the words are out, surprised with himself. It's the first time he's acknowledged out loud that what he felt for Liam was genuine love. It wasn't terrifying as he thought it would be.

“And that's why you've been moping for the last few months? Because he didn't reciprocate your feelings?”

Noting the disappointed tone in Harry's voice, Louis snorts. “It's not good enough a story for you?”

“Well, honestly, after all the secrecy, I was hoping for something a little juicier, but I'll take it.”

Louis draws his knees up to his chin, chews on the inside of his lip as he plans his next words. “Alright,” he says, staring straight ahead. “How's this, then? I've spent years thinking that he had no idea how I felt about him and that every time he turned me down when I asked him out, it was only because he was a bit of an oblivious goof.” The treacherous lump in Louis' throat is signalising its imminent return and he swallows, wills himself to go on. “But about an hour ago, I found out that he did know and that that was a big part of the reason he moved out. He kept fucking me for almost two whole years even though he knew that I wanted more, he _knew_ that I was- that I had certain feelings for him and he chose to act like he had no idea about- about anything and I- my entire fucking life the last year has revolved around the thought that none of what happened was Liam's fault, but- but now it turns out that it was _all_ Liam's fault and I don't- I'm not- _fuck_.” 

He inhales shakily and rubs frantically at his eyes, but it's nothing but a feeble attempt at holding off something inevitable and he knows it. The lump is expanding rapidly and it's not long before it's at the size of a football, pressing against the walls of his throat, making it difficult to breathe and impossible to speak. Curling in on himself to hide his face before the dam bursts, he closes his eyes and focuses on keeping his breathing steady.

“Louis?” Harry's voice is infinitely softer than Louis has ever heard it before and he isn't sure if he's relieved to know that Harry _has_ a softer side or if he's weirded out that Harry chooses this moment to show it.

“No, go away,” he mumbles against his knees. The tears are hot underneath his eyelids and they're starting to sting viciously.

“We're in my flat,” Harry says. “Where do you expect me to go?” 

Louis doesn't say anything, doesn't really trust his voice not to betray him. Pulses of silence ring in his ears, loud and maddening, urging him to let the strained elastics that are keeping him together come apart. He's just scared that when they do, it'll be with a painful snap that'll leave marks for several days to come. 

But then there are fingers combing through his hair with slow, careful, somewhat tentative strokes. Every time they make contact with his scalp, they add more strain to the elastics until there's nothing but a flimsy piece of string left that's threatening to snap at any given moment.

Harry doesn't speak, but the hand that's patting Louis' head slides down to his back, arm folding around his waist and Louis lets himself sag forward, landing with his cheek mushed into Harry's chest. Harry smells clean and his skin is so warm and Louis clings to him like a particularly obnoxious child. 

One tear rolls down his cheek, warm and wet and salty and highly unwelcome. 

Louis hasn't cried over Liam since the day he moved out, but now he is and it fucking _burns_. His lungs are being lit on fire every time he gulps in a mouthful of air and the lump in his throat is still so painful, even as he allows the tears to flow freely. Harry's hand is gentle on his back, rubbing small circles that feel good, but that also make Louis cry harder. 

Maybe it's because he feels like a pathetic mess in a completely surreal situation. 

Louis is crying, harder and for longer than he ever has before and Harry's being nice about it and Louis' world is possibly on the verge of a fiery collapse. Again. If the world was to collapse, Louis wouldn't notice, wouldn't know. All he knows is that he needs to keep crying until his throat is left open and his lungs have stopped burning and his heart has stopped pumping out white-hot venom.

And Harry lets him.

“You're making a proper mess,” he says.

“Shut up,” Louis mumbles, promptly followed a hiccup and another load of tears. “We were having a moment.”

Harry just presses a kiss to the top of Louis' head.

Making a feeble attempt at drying his cheeks, Louis rubs his nose against Harry's chest. “I just don't... I don't get why he didn't say something. Two years of at least two hookups a month and he never told me and I don't understand _why_. Is it like- did I completely misjudge his personality? Is that it? Was he a sadist all along and he just enjoyed putting me through misery or-”

“Or maybe he was afraid of messing up your friendship, just like you were,” Harry cuts in. “I agree that what he did was wrong, but it's not like he was the only one who wasn't being upfront, was it? You never told him how you felt and-”

“I didn't tell him, but he knew.” Louis sniffles and presses himself closer to Harry, soaking in the warmth. “He had to know that talking to me about would be a better solution than to ignore it.”

“Maybe he didn't. As far as I know, he's not the sharpest tool in the shed.”

There's too much truth to that for Louis to be able to gather up any good counter arguments. “Yeah. But he's not _mean_. He's nice, he was always nice, that's one of the reasons I fell for him.”

“You fell for him because he was nice?” Harry asks, sounding a little doubtful.

“Yes, Harry. You see, I have a thing for nice people, which, when I think about it, makes this... situation between us even less understandable.”

“Even when you're crying you're an insufferable knob,” Harry says. 

Louis swats his chest. “I'm beautiful.”

“Yeah?” Leaning down to get a look at Louis' face, Harry grimaces and shakes his head. “You look like a troll.”

“I- see, this is what I was talking about,” Louis huffs. “You're _mean_.”

“I'm letting you blubber and smear snot all over me, aren't I?”

“And I'm sure you have a hidden agenda.”

“A hidden agenda.”

“Yeah. As soon as I'm feeling better, I'm sure you'll have me blow you for three hours because you know I won't have the conscience to say no after you were being all nice and sweet to me. It's not a stupid plan, but I'll just say right now that I will not blow you for three hours today. Maybe tomorrow, but not today.”

Harry stills at that, stops stroking Louis' back, stops petting his hair. Louis is not pleased. He likes being stroked and petted, especially now. “I wasn't planning on having you repay me in sexual favours, but thanks for thinking so highly of me,” Harry says dryly.

Closing his eyes, Louis suppresses a yawn. “Well, then I'm sure you have a different agenda,” he says. A couple of more tears run down his cheeks, but the initial floods seem to have evened out. He's sleepy, though and he wonders what would happen if he just... fell asleep here. Maybe Harry would let him stay the night. He thinks it could be nice to not have to sleep alone for once. Perhaps he'd even manage to sneak a cuddle after Harry's dozed off

Wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his jumper, Louis sits up, just enough that he can look Harry in the eyes. “Can I stay the night?” he asks. He hopes his tear-stained face looks adorable enough to have a persuasive effect. It always works in movies.

Harry makes a face. “I don't sleep well with other people in my bed, remember?”

“I'm a pretty decent bed companion, though,” Louis tries. “I stay on my side, I don't hog the covers, I'll make you breakfast in the morning. I might even wake you up with a blowjob.”

“Louis...”

“I- Harry, come on.” Louis is above begging, but not far above. Not right now, anyway.

Harry heaves a deep sigh and it looks like it causes him a great deal of pain when he nods and says, “Fine, okay. But we're going to bed right now and if I wake up with your foot in my mouth, I'll-”

“You're not gonna wake up with my foot in your mouth.”

Harry looks dubious and Louis manages a wet grin.

It feels odd to walk into Harry's bedroom knowing that he's only there to sleep, that he won't be getting naked (at least not for sexual purposes) and that his penis will remain untouched. It's not a bad kind of odd, it's just... strange. While Harry slips out of his joggers, Louis stands somewhat awkwardly by the foot end of the bed, still with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He doesn't know what side of the bed is Harry's, doesn't know if it's okay for him to sleep naked, doesn't even know he's allowed under the duvet or if he'll have to make do with the blanket. So he waits for direction. 

He hasn't felt this out of place since he was sixteen and was staying over at his at-the-time fling slash almost-boyfriend for the first (and last) time. But he was only a kid then, an insecure kid who occasionally cursed God for making him gay and thought that an oversized denim jacket thrown carelessly over his shoulders would make him blend seamlessly into his very heterosexual group of friends. Almost a decade later and he's not necessarily the walking, talking definition of confidence, but at least his insecurities no longer have anything to do with his preference for penises over vaginas.

Hanging his joggers over the back of a chair next to his dresser, Harry pulls a slightly oversized t-shirt over his head and gathers his hair up in a bun. He looks cute like that, Louis thinks.

Harry slides in under the duvet and readjusts the two pillows so that they're lying side by side instead of on top of one another. Then he looks to Louis and raises his eyebrows. “Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?” he asks.

“Just being polite,” Louis says with a shrug.

“You're annoying, that's what you are,” Harry deadpans.

“Hey, I'm fragile, I might start slobbering again if you're not nice to me.”

Harry doesn't look amused. “Just come to bed.”

“Fine,” Louis says and drops the blanket to the floor. “Is it alright if I sleep naked?”

“Nothing I haven't already seen,” Harry says, which, well, true enough.

If being in Harry's room with no intentions of having sex felt weird, it's nothing compared to being _naked_ in Harry's room with no intentions of having sex. Once his jumper and underwear are in a pile on the floor, Louis feels uncomfortably exposed. He doesn't attempt to hide himself as he walks around to the side of the bed and slides in next to Harry, but a part of him wants to. The only light source in the room is the bedside lamp on Harry's side, though, leaving them mostly in darkness, so he doesn't think any of his _very few_ physical flaws are too prominent.

“This feels weird,” he admits as he gets comfortable, positioning himself on his side so he can look at Harry, who's lying on his back, eyes on the ceiling.

“What, being in my bed?” Harry asks.

“Being in your bed for sleeping,” Louis corrects. “Especially being in your bed for sleeping without there having been any sex involved all evening.”

Rolling his head to the side to face Louis, Harry blinks. “Would it make you feel less weird if we fucked before we go to sleep?”

Louis pretends the thought of _finally_ getting to fuck Harry or have Harry fuck him doesn't make a spark of arousal ignite in his lower abdomen. “Thought you were tired,” is all he says.

“I could stay awake for a bit longer for a good cause.”

“As tempting an offer as that is, I think I'd rather go to sleep if that's okay?” 

“Suit yourself,” Harry says with a shrug.

Louis bites his lip, holds off for a moment before he asks, “Do you want me to, like, blow you or something?”

There's an odd look in Harry's eyes when he looks at Louis. Sad, in a way. “No.”

“Okay. I wasn't kidding about waking you up with a blowjob in the morning, though.”

Reaching to the side to turn off the lamp on the nightstand, Harry snorts. “Not sure I'll want your morning breath anywhere near my dick, but I'll keep it in mind in case I do.”

“As if I'll want your morning dick anywhere near my mouth,” Louis snarks. “I was just trying to be a nice guest, Hairy. Take it or leave it.”

Louis can't see Harry through the darkness, can't even make out his shape, but he hears the smile in his voice when he says, “You're not a guest, you're an intruder. Forced yourself in, didn't you?”

“I did _not_!” Louis insists, kicking Harry under the covers. “I presented a good case, is all. Not my fault you were weak-minded enough to yield.”

“Oh, but how could I resist when you've got all that natural charm going for you?” Harry says. 

Louis isn't sure if he's joking or not, but everything considered, he's gonna go with the former. “You're a dick, Harry,” he says matter of factly.

“Don't reduce me to my genitals, Lou-Moo.”

“It's the only part of you I appreciate, Hairy.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” Louis says defiantly. It's not a lie, per say, but it may not be entirely true either. He doesn't _like_ Harry – fuck no – but he has a nice face and a toned, unusually warm body with soft skin and occasionally, like once every decade, he utters a comment that makes Louis laugh. Louis appreciates a physically attractive man who can make him laugh, is all.

“How come you came here tonight, then?” Harry asks, his voice calm with a distant trace of cold in its core. Louis doesn't answer and Harry adds, “You didn't want to have sex or watch me take a piss, so you clearly didn't come for my dick. If all you wanted was company, you could have just gone to Niall and Zayn's.”

“Travel halfway across the city just to listen to them shag all night?” Louis snaps. He feels cornered and he doesn't much care for it. “No thanks.”

Harry puffs out a breath of air through his nose. Maybe it's a laugh, maybe it's a scoff; Louis isn't sure. “So you came to me instead, even though the only part of me you like is what I've got between my legs?”

Louis flips over on his other side, back turned to Harry, with a grunt. “I'd might like more parts of you if you weren't such a twat all the time,” he says.

“I'm only a twat when I'm with you, darling,” Harry says.

 _Exactly_ , is what Louis wants to say. “Good night, Harry,” is what he actually says.

It goes quiet. Louis closes his eyes, silently prays that his thoughts will give him peace for long enough that he can fall asleep and stay that way for at least a few hours. But now that it's silent, now that he doesn't have Harry to distract him, his mind wanders to Liam and everything starts hurting again. The lump in his throat doesn't return, but his heart aches and his head is heavy and there's a sense of restlessness in his bones that doesn't at all mix well with how tired he is.

“You still crying?”

The question comes as a highly unwelcome breach of the silence and Louis blinks his eyes open, but doesn't turn around. “No,” he says.

“Okay.” The sheets rustle as Harry flips over on his other side, face turned to Louis' back by the sounds of it when he speaks up next. “Can I ask you something?”

“If you must.”

“Were you really that in love him? So much that even now that it's been months since anything you might have had at some point ended, you break down over finding out some uncomfortable truths about him?”

Maybe that'd have been a good moment for Louis to deny that he was ever in love with Liam, to say that it was just a deep infatuation and that Harry needs to shut his trap and go the fuck to sleep. But he cried his heart out on Harry's shoulder no more than an hour ago, spilled out his feelings like a teenage girl from an American rom-com and he's too tired for snark and bile.

“I guess I was,” he says. Pulling the duvet up to his chin, he curls his legs up against his chest and adds a hesitant, “I have a habit of falling too hard and too fast, usually for people who have no interest in me whatsoever and I guess that's what I did with Liam, too.” He regrets the words as soon as they're out, grimaces for no one to see. “Don't you dare ever use that against me. Confessions that are made in dark bedrooms are legally obliged to stay in said bedrooms for all eternity.”

“What are you gonna do if I do use it against you one day?” is Harry's less than adequate response.

Louis sighs, annoyed, because of course Harry would take any goddamned weapon Louis gives him and run with it. “Try and avoid it if you can, yeah?” he says and he _hates_ how soft his voice comes out. No fire, no bite, no nothing, just an unspoken hope that Harry won't ever find himself in a situation where firing off that particular weapon would be called for.

“You never know, it might come in handy,” Harry says.

Louis swallows and clenches his jaw for a moment before he answers. “Do you get off on being a twat to me?” he asks. “Do you just save up all your twattiness, day by day, until you get a chance to unleash it all on me?”

Harry doesn't reply at once and Louis isn't sure if it's because he's trying to come up with a particularly scathing response or if it's because the air's gone out of him. When he does answer, it's with a question. “Does my so-called twattiness actually bother you or are you just trying to pick a fight?”

“Not trying to pick a fight,” Louis says. He's not, he's too tired for fights, even for fights with Harry.

“So me being a twat does bother you?” Somehow, Harry manages to make a simple question sound like a bloody challenge. Louis is too tired for challenges, too.

“No, I-” Louis blows impatiently. “I've had a long day, Harry, so I'd like to go to sleep if you don't mind.”

There's a beat of silence. “Sure,” Harry says and it sounds like he might be smiling. “Good night, Louis. Sweet dreams.”

Harry's taking the piss – Louis isn't stupid enough to think that he isn't, thank you very much, but he still smiles back, admittedly only to himself. “I'll try,” is all he says.

*

When Louis wakes up a little before nine o'clock the next morning, he's rolled over on his back and Harry's hogging the covers. Louis' naked body is on display for anyone who might walk through the door to see. His dick's somewhere in the neighbourhood of half mast and if he wasn't so bloody cold and therefore grumpy, he'd have fulfilled his promise of waking Harry up with a blowjob. There's no way that's gonna happen now, though, Louis decides as he clambers out of bed and starts getting dressed. 

If Harry wants morning blowjobs, he's gonna have to teach himself some goddamned manners first.

He manages to sneak out without waking Harry up and for a moment as he makes his way down the stairs and out of the building, he feels proud of himself. Then he has to remind himself that sneaking out after spending the night with someone, even if there was no sex involved, is a shitty thing to do and a treatment he resents with a burning passion being on the receiving end of. All in all, it's not with a good feeling in his stomach that he locks himself into his own flat. Actually, he realises as the day goes on and he eventually has to get ready for work, he feels like crap.

But he goes out for a drink with Philip and one of Philip's football fanatic friends after his shift ends at eleven in the evening and they run into one of Philip's ex girlfriends who, by the time they're getting ready to wrap the night up, looks to be on a mission to delete the ' _ex_ '-part. It's a night like any other night out. Louis has fun, but it's nothing special, not a night he'll remember ten years down the road, which is perfectly fine, because when he falls into bed at two o'clock, all thoughts of Harry have disappeared in a haze of overpriced cocktails.

And that's good, because Harry hasn't made his existence known all day, not by text or a phone call or e-mail or smoke signals or anything, which clearly means he hasn't been thinking about Louis. They're on the same page and that's good, it's great even. Louis is fucking great.

The rest of April passes by without incident and without Harry and Louis is still great. If he happens to spend a little more time than usual looking up and down the aisles when he's at work, just in case Harry drops by to do some shopping, no one needs to know. The aftershocks of his dinner with Liam stays with him for several days before they start sizzling out. Niall and Zayn notice that something's off and they both ask – Niall on Tuesday, Zayn on Friday – and Louis brushes them off with an excuse about work doing his head in.

With May comes sunnier days, which Louis would have enjoyed if Philip hadn't fallen ill with a bad cold and left Louis to pick up thirty percent of his shifts. 

It comes to Louis when he's walking home one late Wednesday night that he truly doesn't have a life. All he does is work, eat, sleep and occasionally hang out with Niall or Zayn. 

By the time they're halfway through May, Harry still hasn't gotten in touch and Louis isn't sure if he's more annoyed than confused or vice versa. He has a libido that occasionally needs tending to, damnit and so does Harry, so why isn't he summoning Louis for a shag? The situation is entirely dissatisfying.

*

The only thing that surprises Louis about Niall and Zayn's engagement party is how long it takes them to get around to host it. June's only a few days away from trampling up on their doorsteps and the weather's mild and the sky's crystal clear and dark blue and inside Niall and Zayn's flat, it's humid and the air is tainted with the smell of alcohol. It's not a normal engagement party by any standards. No one's in formal attire, everyone's drunk, people are fist pumping to a remix of _We Found Love_ and Niall's childhood friend Tim is manning the barbecue grill out on the balcony. 

It's a trashy house party, not a classy engagement party and it couldn't have been more perfect for Niall and Zayn if God himself had planned it.

Louis has been hanging around since five o'clock, having been called over early by Niall to help set things up, which turned out to be a blatant lie. What Niall actually wanted help with was doing the shopping. And, as it turned out, by ' _help_ ', he meant that Louis should go do the shopping while he and Zayn spent an extra hour lounging on the couch. Louis did it because he's a bloody amazing friend, but the point of the matter is that he's been at it constantly since seven a.m. when he left for work and it's almost midnight now and he's about three minutes away from falling asleep.

He's sitting on the couch, squished between a girl he has no idea who is and one of Zayn's sisters. There are things going on everywhere around him, but all he manages to focus on is Harry, who's wandered through the living room on his way elsewhere a whole of three times in the last half hour. He hasn't looked at Louis as much as once. They haven't spoken since the day Louis spent the night and Louis doesn't think they're on bad terms, but... it's been a month without a word. 

It's not like Louis is _waiting_ for a text or a call or anything. God.

Except he absolutely totally is and it makes him feel like a lesser human being. Every time he wakes up in the morning and checks his phone for possible texts or missed calls that have come in during the night, his heart drops a centimetre or two upon realising that that isn't the case. He doesn't even know why that is, all he knows is that he's feeling abandoned and miserably horny and that it's all Harry's fault.

Gulping down the last of his, quite frankly, disgusting drink, Louis looks up just in time to see Harry walk in through the open door to the balcony. He's carrying a bottle of wine in his hand and fuck, Louis wants that wine. Harry's also wearing a shirt that only has the three bottom buttons done, putting most of his chest on display and yes, okay, Louis wants to put his mouth all over that chest. Maybe he could drink the wine off of Harry's chest. What an inspired idea.

He jumps up on his feet, a little unsteady and catches Harry by the wide doorway that leads into the kitchen. Harry looks befuddled when he turns around to Louis grabbing his arm. When his eyes fall on Louis' face, however, it turns irritated.

“What's with the face?” Louis asks as he lets go of Harry's arm. “I'm the one who should be mad at you, you know. You haven't called or texted or visited or asked me to come over in, like, a month.”

“Is that how our arrangement works?” Harry retorts, leaning his shoulder against the wall and crossing his arms. “I'm the one who has to initiate hookups and if I don't, you get the right to be angry?”

“Yes, exactly,” Louis quips. Harry doesn't look further amused and Louis scowls. “What, so you're mad at me for not having gotten in touch with you and that's why _you_ haven't gotten in touch with _me_? The reason I haven't had sex in a month is that we're both petty? Unbelievable.”

“No, Louis, because unlike you, I'm _not_ petty,” Harry says with a wry smile. “The reason I haven't gotten in touch with you since you barged into my flat in the middle of the night and demanded my company, is that I've been busy.”

“Busy,” Louis repeats. “Busy with what?”

“Busy with life,” is Harry's vague response. “Speaking of which, I have a thing going on in the guest room, so unless you have more you want to say, I'm gonna go.”

“You have a- what?” Louis' heart beats a little harder against his ribcage. “A thing? With a person?”

“Yes, Louis, with a person. Who is probably waiting for me, so-”

“A thing with a person that includes wine?” Louis realises a little too late that he sounds far too upset, so he hurries to add a scornful, “You sure you're not just gonna drink it all by yourself and then shove the bottle up your arse?”

“Quite sure, yeah,” Harry says dryly.

“Okay, so you wanna fuck someone, but you need to get them drunk first?”

“I'm not gonna fuck them, I'm just gonna have some wine with them, talk, joke around, have a cuddle. Might be a foreign concept to you, but those are things you do when you wanna get to know someone.”

Louis wants to punch the wall. Or at least shove Harry into it. What he actually does, mostly thanks to his semi-drunk brain, is to utter a meek, “You could do that with me, save yourself the trouble of having to warm up to someone new.”

“Who says I've even warmed up to you?”

“You could still do it with me,” Louis tries. He's not meeting Harry's eyes, has no interest in seeing the rejection he knows he'll get before it's put out in the open. Instead, he's looking at the wall. “I wouldn't mind some wine or a talk or a joke or... whatever.”

It's a moment of nothing before Harry responds. “I don't think so,” he says and there's no mockery behind it, only some sort of apology that Louis doesn't want. Harry doesn't let Louis reply before he turns around and continues on his way to Niall and Zayn's spare bedroom. 

Louis looks up just in time to see the door close. Despite there being people everywhere around him, he feels terribly, nauseatingly lonely where he's standing. His heart is still beating rapidly in his chest.

There's a sudden tap on the back of his shoulder and he jumps. Niall's curious, but surprisingly sober, form is standing there when he turns around. “What were you talking to Harry for?”

Louis doesn't want to answer that. “I want to ask you something. And I'm a little drunk, so I'm gonna need you to not hold it against me, like, ever.”

The curiosity remains on Niall's face, but a hint of something darker infiltrates it. Something like concern, perhaps. “Okay.”

Louis tilts his head to the side, keeps his eyes on the floor and sucks in his bottom lip. “What is it about me that makes people not want to, like, hang out with me and... stuff?”

“What?” Niall laughs. “We hang out all the time, what are you-”

“No, I mean, like, other people. People I have sex with.”

“What?” Niall says again, but this time it just sounds unbearably sad. “Is this about Liam?”

Louis shakes his head. He has yet to tell Niall about his dinner with Liam last month and he doesn't think Niall's found out from other sources either. He's grateful, can barely stand the thought of the sympathetic words and too kind expressions he'd get if Niall did know. “No, it's not about Liam,” he says.

“Then who is about it?”

“I- no one in particular, it's just a general question based on the story of my bloody life,” Louis says with a tiny, bitter laugh. “I make for a good fuck-buddy, yeah? But the moment I ask for something more, they all suddenly have better places to be and more interesting people to meet. Nice, innit?”

“Louis-”

“I think I'm gonna go home, get some sleep. I have work tomorrow.” He doesn't, for once, but the lie makes his departure seem less inexcusable. Niall doesn't protest, just gives Louis a hug and thanks him for the help and says he'll call in the morning. Louis loves Niall.

The air is crisp and still as Louis walks along the pavement on his way home. It's soothing after the chaos inside. He didn't notice earlier, but he has a headache that he's pretty sure hasn't got anything to do with alcohol.

Molster's asleep on the bed when he gets home. He picks her up and carries her out to the living room, puts her down in her spot on the armchair, kisses her head goodnight and then retreats to the bedroom. Once he's stripped down and gotten under the covers, he doesn't feel as tired anymore. Go figure. So he rolls over on his back, stares up at the ceiling that's decorated by a stream of light peering in through the curtains and he starts thinking.

He thinks about Liam, who's getting married in a little over two months to someone who definitely isn't Louis; he thinks about Niall and Zayn, who are getting married in January and who, despite by-weekly fights, love each other so much Louis can't stand being alone with them together for more than a couple of hours at the time; he thinks about his mum who's had to go through four serious relationships that all led to tough breakups before finding _the one_ ; he thinks about Philip, who's the same age as Louis and in the exact same place in life, but who, as opposed to Louis, seems more than content with it. 

And, against his will, he thinks about Harry. Harry who's warm and who smells good and who, despite their dysfunctional “relationship”, took the time to comfort Louis when he needed it. Harry who never wants to stay over and who never wants to cuddle and who never wants to talk. Harry who's with someone else right now, drinking wine and talking and laughing and probably kissing just for the sake of kissing. Harry who's rude and mean and boring and who Louis sorta hates. Harry who Louis still, for reasons unbeknownst to him, wants to have next to him in bed right now.

He wants Harry in his bed for non-sexual purposes and that... that's not good. Louis puts it down to being tipsy and the general sadness it brings him to think of how he hasn't had _anyone_ in his bed for non-sexual purposes in _years_. Not that he hasn't tried to make it happen, but thinking of it that way just makes him feel even more pathetic, so he assassinates the thought swiftly and without any messy blood shed.

In the end, he fetches Molster from the living room and lets her sleep in his bed. She's not human, but at least she's a living creature that may offer some affection if he scratches her head the right way.

*

As promised, Niall calls at ten o'clock the next morning. He doesn't ask Louis about last night; not about their fleeting conversation right before Louis left and not about Harry. He just asks how Louis is feeling and tells him about the puddle of vomit on the bathroom floor that's so big he's more impressed than angry with whoever left it there. And then he asks if there's any chance Louis would like to come over and help straighten out the flat.

Louis would absolutely not like that, but he's a good friend and he doesn't want anyone questioning that.

“Consider this your wedding gift,” he grunts when he arrives forty-five minutes later, wearing his rattiest joggers and his oldest tank top that's so stretched out it shows off both of his nipples. Whatever. Louis has lovely nipples.

“If it's gonna be our wedding gift, you should at least be smiling,” Niall says as he follows Louis into the living room.

Louis blows out a whiff of air. “I'm a bit hungover and you asked me to help clean an entire bloody flat at eleven o'clock in the morning and now you want me to smile, too? You're pushing your luck, Horan. Where's your fiancé?”

Zayn, as it turns out, is still asleep. Naked, on top of the covers and with a love bite the size of Texas decorating his left arse cheek. Louis wants to wake him up, but Niall refuses, saying they didn't go to sleep until the sun was rising and that if they wake him up now, he's gonna be an insufferable cunt for the rest of the day.

“I'm gonna be an insufferable cunt the rest of the day, too if it's just gonna be the two of us dealing with all this,” Louis says after they've quietly backed out and returned to the trashed living room. 

There are bottles, plastic cups, paper plates, proper wine glasses, gift wrappers and other miscellaneous items (including a pair of blood stained panties that Louis would rather burn off his hands than touch) strewn everywhere, also inside the DVD cupboard next to the TV and on top of the bookcase behind the sofa. Leftover crumbs of all sorts of foods are staining the floor and Louis tries his very best not to step on any of it.

Niall smiles and pats his shoulder. “Yes, but you're always an insufferable cunt and you always have been, so I know perfectly well how to deal with you. And besides, Harry's coming over soon to help, so it won't be just the two of us.”

Louis freezes. “Harry's coming?”

“He offered, which is more than you did, so clearly he's a better friend than you,” Niall says. He heads off to the washing room and leaves Louis standing there with a certain feeling of dread in his stomach.

As it turns out, Niall is no more interested in touching the panties than Louis is. Waking Zayn up so he can take care of it is, apparently, not an option. In the end, their solution is to kick it out of the way and wait for Harry to show up so he can take care of it. 

“He works with pharmaceuticals, surely he must be somewhat used to blood, right?” is Niall's reasoning.

Louis blinks, stills with his hand hovering over an empty vodka bottle on the floor. Harry works in pharmaceuticals? He doesn't say it loud, doesn't want Niall thinking he actually gives a damn about what Harry does for a living, which he _doesn't_. It's just... It's ridiculous, but as he stands there, surrounded by garbage and dirt and with a half full plastic bag in his hand, he comes to the somewhat disturbing realisation that he doesn't know jack squat about the guy he's been sleeping with on a regular basis for almost six months. Not that it matters, really, but somehow it makes him feel strangely forlorn.

Niall is the hysterically cackling witness to Louis attempting to lift the sofa to get a hold of the stack of garlic-stinking paper plates underneath when the doorbell rings. Louis promptly sits up straight and looks towards the entrance hall. A call of, “Civilisation has arrived!” rings through the flat and a moment later, Harry strolls into view. He's dressed all in black – black jeans and a black loose-fitting tank top and a black bandana keeping his hair in place. 

Louis chokes a bit on his own spit.

“About bloody time you showed up,” Niall says, not seeming to have noticed Louis' moment of distress.

“I smelled like a public toilet and had to take a shower, figured you weren't interested in me stinking up your flat even more,” Harry says.

“Don't reckon it matters much, Louis is already doing a proper fine job of that on his own.”

“I- excuse me!” Louis stands up and places his hands on his hips. “I was commanded over like here a servant even though I'd rather be at home in bed, so you have no right to criticise me.”

“I didn't command you over, I _asked_ you to come over,” Niall says with a wave of his hand.

“And if I hadn't said yes, I'd have looked like a twat, so I'd like to say I was definitely _forced_ to come here.”

“You're a cunt,” Niall says matter of factly before he gives Louis the finger and walks off in direction of the kitchen while mumbling something under his breath about poor life choices and needing new friends.

It's completely quiet for a bit until the tap in the kitchen starts running and they can hear Niall rustle about in the cupboards, hopefully in search for soap and a bucket.

Looking at Harry, Louis stuffs his hands in his pockets, just to have something to do. 

“Nice outfit,” Harry says. “Charming.”

“I'm hungover. I don't need it to be charming, I just need it to be comfortable.” Harry merely smiles at that. Louis smiles back for a second or two before clearing his throat. “So... how was your thing last night?” He has no idea why asks, because he doesn't give a crap about the answer. Except there may be a tiny, insignificant part of him that hopes Harry will tell him it didn't go very well. Only because of the sex, obviously. If Harry's thing went well, it'll probably mean the end of his and Louis' arrangement and since Louis is a sexual human being, he'd very much like to keep it going with Harry until a better offer presents itself.

“It was alright,” Harry says. He rolls his lips and pauses briefly before he continues. “Sorry for just skipping out on you. I didn't mean to be rude or anything, I just had-”

“You had someone waiting for you,” Louis cuts in. He smiles again, but it feels infinitely more forced this time. “It's fine. I mean, I'm not your... well, anything, you don't have to justify your choices to me.”

“You sure? You looked a little... I don't know, upset, when I left.”

Louis frowns. His once beloved face clearly betrayed him last night. “I wasn't upset,” he says. “Maybe you need to get your eyes checked, there's a chance you're going blind.”

“Louis...”

“We're not here to chitchat, Hairy. In case you haven't noticed, we're standing in the middle of a war zone that desperately needs to be cleaned before the next battle takes place, so let's focus on that, yeah?” He doesn't wait for a response before he throws himself around and continues on his quest of collecting rubbish.

Niall returns and puts on a playlist consisting of music that's just a tiny tad too upbeat for Louis' taste. The three of them spend the next two hours tidying and dusting off and scrubbing every surface in the living room. Harry's not too happy about being put on panties-duty, but as Louis and Niall watches in horror, he obediently picks them up and throws them in the large, black plastic bag.

“My hero,” Niall sighs, hanging off Harry's shoulder while batting his eyelashes dramatically.

Even Harry draws the line at cleaning up the gigantic puddle of vomit in the bathroom, though, so while he and Louis start mopping the living room floor, Niall heads off to the bathroom. He looks thoroughly miserable and Louis, who's gotten a peek at the puddle, offers a supportive pat on the back.

The moment Niall's gone into the bathroom and closed the door, Louis drops his mop to the floor and slumps down on the sofa with a groan. His back hurts from all the bending up and down.

“Get up, lazy arse,” Harry says, kicking him in the shin. “I'm not gonna finish this all by myself.”

Louis glares. “Sod off. I've been here an hour longer than you and my back's hurting.”

“Then start working out more and don't take your lack of physical fitness out on me.”

“Again: Sod off.” Louis stretches, grumbles when the stiffness spreads from his lower back up to his shoulders.

Leaning on his mop, Harry creases his forehead. “Is this you being in poor physical shape or do you actually have a back problem?”

Sometimes, Louis wonders if there's anything at all in Harry's head other than sawdust, cob webs and an exceptional amount of arrogance. “I've been working at a supermarket for three years and I never work out. Of course I have a back problem.”

“Is it bad?”

“No, just bad enough that flares up every now and again.”

“Like when?”

Louis throws his hands in the air. “Like when I do things that involve bending my back a lot. Are you done playing doctor?”

Harry offers a flat glare. “Sure,” he says and then, without any further ado, “Wanna come over tonight?”

It's Louis' turn to glare. “I tell you my back's hurting and your reaction is to ask me for sex? Nice. Real smooth, Harry.”

“You're free to say no,” Harry says, which, well, true enough.

Getting back on his feet, Louis grabs his mop and continues where he left off. “Fine,” he says without looking at Harry. “Nine o'clock alright?”

It's almost four in the afternoon and the entire flat is scrubbed clean by the time Zayn emerges from the bedroom, stark naked. Traipsing out to the living room, he calls out for Niall, but stops dead in his tracks when he lays eyes on Louis and Harry on the couch. Louis shrieks and covers his eyes while Harry throws a pillow at Zayn before he follows Louis' example. The eye-covering, that is. He's too manly for shrieking, apparently. Ridiculous. While Niall cackles like a hyena, Zayn yawns and trudges back into the bedroom and comes back half a minute later with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“You'd think neither of you have ever seen a dick before,” Niall says as Zayn slumps down between his legs, back rested against Niall's front.

“Yeah, Lou,” Harry says, grinning wolfishly. “Haven't you ever seen a dick before?”

Louis narrows his eyes at Harry. What the bleeding hellhole is he playing at? Is he trying to get them exposed? “None of decent size as of late,” he says with a tight smile. That earns him a poke in the waist that has him let out a yelp, but if he isn't completely mistaken, Harry's smiling.

Niall makes them dinner as thank you for the help – proper Mexican fajitas that he serves with ice cold beer. All four of them are in a state of mild drunkenness by the time the six o'clock news roll over the screen and Zayn moans pitifully about somehow being drunk and hungover at the same time. Harry announces that he has to leave half an hour after that and Niall follows him out to the entrance hall while Louis pretends to be watching the news just to have an excuse not to say goodbye to Harry (or even look at him). Zayn is well on his way to fall back asleep and save for the boxers Niall coached him into putting on (“I don't want your nuts freezing off before our wedding night, love”), he's still only wearing the blanket.

Louis hears Niall and Harry talk in the entrance hall, but their voices are mere mumbles, like they're actively trying to avoid being overheard. Straining his ears to their maximum capacity, Louis catches the words “fuck” and “someone”, but that's the extent of it. The conversation dies down after a couple of minutes and Louis hears Harry leave with a chipper, “See you on Wednesday.”

The moment Niall returns and has sat down between Louis and Zayn, Louis is on him. “What's happening on Wednesday?” he asks. “And what were you talking about that you didn't want me to hear?”

Niall grabs his beer bottle and plants his feet on the table. He looks proper manly. “He's taking me to meet up with a guy he knows from uni who DJ's.”

Louis blinks. “What, your iPod isn't good enough anymore?”

“For the wedding reception? No, I think we'll go with something a little more sophisticated than Zayn's Spotify playlist.”

“What? You've started planning the wedding already?” That particular piece of information has Louis forget about Niall and Harry's top secret conversation for a bit.

“It's only seven months away,” Niall says and takes a swig of his beer. “Gotta start planning these things early if you don't wanna end up with a disaster on your hands.”

“Disasters are memorable, though,” Louis muses. “In thirty years, no one's gonna remember that time they went to the wedding of Sleeping Beauty and the Beast and the most interesting thing that happened was that Sleeping Beauty's nephew dropped a slice of wedding cake on Beast's grandma's brand new orthopaedic pumps.”

“I don't have a nephew and Zayn's grandparents are all dead.”

“You think _you're_ Sleeping Beauty and that that darling little angel with the face of a Greek god who's asleep next to you is the Beast?”

“You've never seen him in action.”

“In-” Louis pales. “Oh, _ew_! I don't wanna know that!”

Swallowing a mouthful of beer, Niall snickers around a, “You're such a prude.”

“I'm a prude because I'm not interested in hearing about what my best friend since I was nine gets up to in the bedroom with his Sleeping Beauty? Well, excuse-fucking-me, Niall.”

“Hey, if you'd had a sex life, I'd want to hear all about it,” Niall argues. And okay, alright. Louis knows that, he knows that Niall has little to no understanding of the term ' _personal info_ ' and that if he got his will, he'd all but demand an exchange of notes on what to do in given bedroom-related situations. Louis isn't quite that fond of talking about his sex-life when he's not actually having sex, especially not with a person who isn't the one he's having sex with.

“I do have a sex life,” Louis says and whacks Niall's shoulder. “And it's bloody great, just so you know.” He needs to make sure Harry never finds out those words ever left his mouth. The horror in knowing what extraterrestrial levels Harry's ego will reach is enough to make Louis shudder.

“Your own hand doesn't count as a sex partner,” Niall says and then, when Louis opens his mouth to protest, “And neither does your own mouth or your feet or-”

Louis lowers his eyelids. “My feet? You think I get myself off with _my feet_ I supposed to know how you get yourself off and not?” Niall blinks innocently and a little drunkenly. “You won't tell me anything, so I just have to-”

“You need to stop, like, right now. I'm not gonna tell you how I-”

“I never said that I _wanted_ to know, you pervert.”

Louis sinks a little further down in the cushions and sighs deeply. “What were we talking about again?”

“Why don't you just stop talking all together?” comes Zayn's unexpected contribution from buried somewhere deep in the pillows.

Louis looks at Niall and Niall shrugs in a wordless, ' _Sure, whatever_ '. So they don't talk for a bit, just watches as the news turn into the weather forecast, which turns into a documentary on world war one.

“Gotta be terrible to die in a ditch like that, all dirty and alone and far from home,” Louis says as the documentary's narrator explains the soldiers' living conditions. It makes Louis sad and achy inside to imagine his life ending in a muddy trench while gunfire is going off everywhere around him.

Niall doesn't answer and when Louis tears his eyes away from the TV to look at him, it's only to find out that he's fallen asleep, head on Zayn's chest and beer bottle dangling loosely from his hand. A part of Louis wants to jump on them and scream the national anthem at the top of his lungs to wake them up. The other part wants to tuck them into a blanket and go home, leaving them to their domestic bliss. He can't bring himself to drag them out of their slumber, though, because Niall might not be Sleeping Beauty, but he does make for an adorable sleeper. So he goes with option number two instead, folds a blanket from the couch over the two sleeping forms and leaves a note on the kitchen table (' _don't you dare make any more decisions about the wedding without me, I need an input when it comes to the food_ ') before he heads home.

Molster and St. Harold ambush him the moment he walks through the door. He feeds them, refills their water bowls, checks the litter box and then collapses on the sofa in a pile of exhaustion and soreness. He has less than an hour before he's supposed to be at Harry's, so unless he wants a snide comment about how he smells like a dead ferret, he should probably take a shower. Louis doesn't want to take a shower. Or, no, actually he does want to take a shower, but after that, he'd like to make himself a fry-up for supper, turn in early to sleep off the last remains of his hangover and wake up bright and shiny for work in the morning.

Then again, he hasn't had sex since before the industrial revolution and he hasn't sex that got his butt properly involved since dinosaurs roamed the earth. Harry seemed to be in a pretty good mood earlier, so maybe he could be persuaded to fuck Louis at last. The thought alone makes a flare of arousal shoot through him and yeah, he's made his choice. Sex over rest. 

He takes a shower and the warm water feels so good against his stiff back that he stays there for forty minutes. It would have been longer, but the hot water starts running out at the thirty minute-mark and it's close to freezing by forty. Louis doesn't dress up for Harry, because that would be a whole new level of degrading, but he puts on a clean pair of jeans that are just the faintest bit too tight to be considered comfortable and a brand new white t-shirt that folds nicely against the slopes of his waist. 

Harry's more likely to want to fuck him if he looks nice, right?

There's a neon pink post-it hanging on Harry's door when Louis gets there. ' _in the bedroom, just walk right in,_ ' it says. Louis frowns. As he opens the door carefully and treads inside, he silently hopes that the note was specifically intended for him and that Harry hasn't started plastering invitations to private sex parties on his door for anyone to see.

As he unties his shoes, he shouts out a question of, “Have you honestly become this lazy?”

“Yes!” comes the response. Harry's ridiculous and he should have his head dunked in a bucket of ice water. 

Louis rolls his eyes as he heads in direction of the bedroom. The door is open and as he gets closer, he sees that it's only dimly lit. Dimly lit bedroom. That's a new one. It's usually either pitch black or blindingly bright when they're having sex. Pitch black if Louis gets his will, blindingly bright if Harry gets his.

It's a bit of an amusing surprise to Louis when he walks through the open door and the first thing he sees is Harry lying on his back on the bed. He's wearing boxers and a t-shirt, but no trousers. Just like Louis, he has the fresh-faced look that witnesses of a recent excursion to the shower. The dim lighting is a result of the lamp on the nightstand being the only source of illumination in the room.

Louis halts for a moment in the doorway before he walks over to the bed and sits down, folding his legs in front of himself Indian style. It's quiet and Harry just looks at Louis, like he's waiting for something. 

Smacking his lips, Louis asks, “You couldn't muster up the chivalry to get your arse up and greet me at the door?”

“Take your clothes off and lie down on your front,” is Harry's unrelated and extremely unattractive answer.

“Being commanded around doesn't do it for me, Harry, sorry to break it to you.”

“I'm not- that's not what I meant,” Harry says as he sits up. “Just get naked and lie down.”

Louis makes a face and shakes his head. The situation is turning less and less sexy by the second and Louis is not pleased. “Seriously, you grade A twat, I'm all for the idea of you fucking me and I'm not _that_ fussed about foreplay, but I-”

“It's not for sexual purposes,” Harry cuts in, a touch of impatience in his voice. Louis gives a quizzical look and Harry sighs deeply. “It's for your back.”

“My back?” Louis' back is a lot less sore than it was two hours ago, but there's still a highly unwelcome prodding at the bottom of his spine that he has a nagging suspicion will make it difficult to fall asleep later. “What does my back have to do with getting naked and-” He cuts himself off, his eyes widening in momentary shock. “Are you... I mean, do you want- are you gonna give me a _massage_?”

“If you want one,” Harry says, looking and sounding as cool and collected as always. Louis resents that. Why is Harry acting like him offering Louis a massage is an everyday occurrence while Louis finds himself at a loss for words?

In the end, he simply says, “Okay,” without looking Harry in the eyes and shuffles out of his clothes, one item at the time. He doesn't see why his underwear has to go, but if there's a chance the back massage will turn into a butt massage, Louis isn't about to waste it. Harry sits by idly, watches as Louis gets naked and lies down on his front, folding his arms under his head. “I'm naked now,” Louis says, wiggling his butt for emphasis.

“Your arse is pale,” is Harry's response.

“Your everything is pale,” Louis snarks back. “Especially your penis.”

“You think I should go to the nearest beach and sunbathe with my penis hanging out?”

“Yes. It'll probably get you arrested and it'll be all over the news and you know, now that the idea has occurred to me, I don't think I can die happily before I've seen videos of you being arrested for public nudity.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Harry says. The mattress shifts and then Harry's long and, frankly, hairy legs are straddling Louis' thighs, right underneath his bum. Louis wiggles his butt again. He could get used to this.

“Stop jiggling your arse.”

Apparently Harry can't get used to it. “You don't like it?” Louis asks and wiggles again.

Harry sighs audibly. “Not when I'm trying to give you a massage, no.”

“I think your hands need to be touching me if you're gonna give me a massage,” Louis points out.

“Promise to stop twerking and I'll put my hands on you,” Harry says.

Louis hums. “I should learn how to twerk.”

“Preferably not right now.” Harry is such a bore, honestly. 

No wonder he can't find a boyfriend. 

Or a girlfriend. 

Louis blinks. As Harry starts kneading carefully at the bottom of his spine, he shifts his head on the pillow, fluffs it up a bit. “So, what's the deal with you?” he asks, keeping his voice as casual as he can manage.

“The deal with me?” Harry asks. The insides of his thighs really do feel nice pressed against the outside of Louis'. Scratchy thanks to the coarse hair, but nice nonetheless.

“Yeah,” Louis says with a shrug. “Boys or girls? Or both?”

There's a couple of seconds of silence before Harry answers. “Mostly boys. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

“Curious.” Silent beat. “About me.”

Louis hates how sceptical Harry sounds, like just the idea of Louis being curious about him is completely preposterous. Which, given historical reasons, it probably is, but. “We've been having sex for half a year, Hairy, it's only natural that I wanna know where your dick's been.” The words are barely out of his mouth before another question pops into his head. He's not entirely sure he wants to know the answer, but nonetheless he asks, “Are you getting it on with someone else these days?”

Harry stops massaging for a moment, but resumes when Louis wiggles his butt once more. “Not at the moment, no,” he says. “Another question you asked just because you're curious?”

' _Not at the moment_ '. Louis doesn't like the sound of that, but he doesn't comment on it. “No, this one was to find out if I'm in danger of catching anything,” he says. “I'm not, am I?”

“I know how to put on a condom, so no, you're not.”

That wasn't quite the answer Louis was looking for, but like hell if he's gonna fish for information about what Harry does with his dick when he's not with Louis. Nope. “So that... thing of yours that you dumped me for last night, it doesn't involve sex?” It's not fishing when he asks directly. Louis is a brave soul, damnit.

Harry slides his hands up to the middle of Louis' back and starts working on the muscles there with slow, calculated motions. It feels nothing short of delicious and Louis almost moans out loud. Almost. “Not yet,” Harry says.

Not yet. That means it will later on. Louis scowls. “What, summoning me whenever you feel like getting off isn't enough for you?”

“I sincerely hope that was a joke.”

Louis' scowl intensifies. “Of course it was. Fuck whoever you want, I don't care.”

“Okay. Good.”

Louis closes his eyes. “Can I ask one more thing?” Harry doesn't say a word and Louis takes it as a yes. “That thing, that you don't sleep well with other people in your bed, is that true or is it an excuse you came up with because you didn't want _me_ in your bed?”

“Honestly?”

“Preferably.”

“A little bit of both.” Pause. “Mostly the latter, I guess.”

Louis' heart sinks a couple of centimetres, far enough to create a heavy feeling in his tummy. He wants it gone. “So you're not actually the biggest twat on planet earth, then, it's just when you're with me,” he says. “That's... good to know, I suppose.” It's not good to know, not really, but if it is, it's only because that'd mean Niall's taste in friends isn't as awful as Louis thought. It's something. 

Harry continues to work on Louis' back, but he doesn't answer. 

The silence sits like an iron anvil in Louis' chest, squeezing his lungs until he finds it uncomfortable to breathe and all he wants is to go home and go to sleep and not wake up until next week. He should have just stayed at home, shouldn't have bothered taking a shower and putting on nice clothes and dragged his arse all the way over here. He feels stupid.

“I think my back's better now, you can stop,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows.

“What?” Harry snorts. “It's barely been ten minutes.”

Louis kicks his feet restlessly. “Move, Harry.”

Harry stops mid-knead. He doesn't say anything and when Louis doesn't either, he climbs off and settles by the pillow. “What's got your knickers in a twist all of a sudden?” he asks.

Gathering his clothes, Louis starts getting dressed, keeping his eyes on anything but Harry. It feels like the safest option. “Nothing,” he says as he pulls his t-shirt over his head. “My back's fine, I'm tired and I have work in the morning, so I should get home. Actually, I shouldn't have come here in the first place.” The jeans presents a bit of a struggle and as he jumps on the spot to get into them, he can practically hear Harry's judgemental looks.

“Why did you, then?” Harry asks. “If you know you have work in the morning, why bother-”

“I don't know,” Louis cuts in, waving his hand in the air. He sits down on the bed to put his socks on. “I was horny and wanted to have sex. If you'd told me earlier that what you invited me over for wasn't sex, you'd have saved us both some time.”

“And you couldn't have just said no when I offered you the massage?”

Standing back up on his feet, Louis straightens his t-shirt and drags a hand through his hair. “I'm gonna go now. See you whenever.”

He's almost at the door when Harry speaks up. “You're actually cross with me, aren't you?”

Louis sighs and turns around. Harry's still sitting on the bed, as if he's waiting for Louis to come back. “No more than usual.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “I tell you that the reason I won't let you stay over is that it's _you_ and the next thing I know is that you wanna go home and you expect me to believe it doesn't have anything to do with what I said?”

Louis blinks. His heart is beating painfully again, like it did last night at the party. He can't stand the way Harry's looking at him, condescending and pitying both at once. “Well,” he says. “Call me crazy, but when I'm sleeping with someone who has no actual interest in me, I can be aware of it without necessarily liking to be reminded of it when I'm naked in their bed.”

Once the last word is out of Louis' mouth, there's only pity left in Harry's eyes. “You were the one who brought it up in the first place,” he says. “If you hadn't asked, I wouldn't have said anything.”

“If I hadn't asked, you'd have finished your massage, we'd have gotten each other off and then you'd tell me to piss off,” Louis retorts. “Either way, I'd have gotten that nice reminder thrown right at my face, wouldn't I?”

“Since when do you have a problem with the way we do things?”

A sharp, ' _Since fucking always_ ' is bouncing on its toes right at the tip of Louis' tongue, ready to launch itself out into open air. Louis won't let it, though. No way. He's got some pride and self-respect, dammit. “You know what? Never mind,” he says, plastering a smile on his face that feels so fake he swears he can hear lie detectors going off in the far distance. “You carry on having your little romantic get-togethers with people you actually like and I'll be no more than a phonecall away whenever you need somewhere warm to put your dick, alright?”

“Louis-”

“Great. See you later, Harry. Have a good night,” he says before he opens the door and all but runs out. 

He reaches the entrance hall before Harry catches up with him, stopping in the doorway. “What's your problem?” he asks. There are traces of anger in his voice, carefully masked by a void facial expression. “Do you want us to start dating? You can't do more casual sex, so you want us to look past the fact that we don't really like each other and start going out for dinners and movies and whatnot?”

Louis doesn't snarl, but it's not far from it. “Don't stand there and patronise me,” he spits. “I can do casual sex for the rest of my bloody life if I want to.”

“What's the problem, then? Because you're clearly mad about something, otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation.”

“I- I'm not-” Louis closes his mouth and breathes in deeply through his nose. “Nothing, Harry. I want nothing.” 

A part of Louis wants to smack himself. Harry just served him a golden opportunity and he blew it off like he didn't want it. He did want it, though, at least to some extent. A chance to utter a few, simple requests. 

' _Let me stay over sometimes. Let me make you breakfast. Let me have actual conversations with you. Let me use your chest as a pillow every now and again. Let me pretend that you're not another Liam._ '

But then Harry shrugs. “Okay. I'll see you soon,” he says before he turns around and walks back into the bedroom, closing the door quietly. 

And Louis is left standing there with an angry face and a heavy heart and a nagging suspicion that he just made the second biggest mistake of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna wait until the afternoon to post this because tbh I didn't think I'd be up until at least 3pm, but then our dearly beloved boys decided to fulfill their potential as a group of rudeass hoes and released a new fucking single that I've had on replay for almost two hours, and now here we are. Hah ahm, yes, so thank you so much for the response on part one, the kudos and comments and messages on tumblr are all very, very highly appreciated! :) (The third part isn't finished written yet, but it'll be posted as soon as it is!)
> 
> [tumblr](http://lilopranks.tumblr.com)


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